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SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET 

OR 

A FALSE POSITION 


BY 

ADELINE EERGEANT 

AUTHOR OF “ JACOBI’S WIFE,” “UNDER FALSE PRETENCES,” ETC. 


NEW YORK 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 

1 19 Potter Building 

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Copyright, 1891, by 

JOHN A. TAYLOR AND COMPANY 



CONTENTS 


chapter page 

I. — Lady Kesterton’s Plans, 5 

II. — Sir Anthony’s Choice, ...... 18 

III. — The West Wing, 28 

IV. — After the Funeral 38 

V. — The Last Message, 48 

VL— Elfrida . . 60 

VIL — Christmas Eve, ....... 71 

VIII. — The Carol-Singers, ....... 82 

IX. — Lady Beltane’s Cousin, ...... 94 

X.—“ My Wards.” 105 

XI — The New Mistress, 116 

XII. — “That Troublesome Girl,” 128 

XIII. — Brother and Sister, ....... 140 

XIV. — A Strange Prejudice, 152 

XV. — After Seven Years, ....... 163 

XVI. — Elfrida’s Vocation, ....... 175 

XVII. — Lady Betty’s Young Man, 187 

XVIII. — After Dinner, ........ 199 

XIX. — The Heiress of the Future, . . • . . . 211 

XX. — In Masquerade, .' 222 

XXL — Philip’s Resolve, 234 

XXII. — The Last Chance, 245 

XXIII. — A Prophecy of 111 , ...... . 255 

XXIV. — Love’s Young Dream, 266 

XXV. — Renunciation, 277 


4 


CONTENTS. ■ 


XXVI. — Lady Kesterton’s Ball, . ■ . • • • ^^9 

XXVII. — The End of a Farce, 3^2 

XXVIII.— Routed, 

XXIX. — The Shadow of Sin, 325 

XXX. — The Shadow of Death, 335 

XXXI. — Two Points of View, 34^ 

XXXII. — The Gauntlet is Thrown Down 35^ 

XXXIII.— A Snake in the Grass, 3^9 

XXXIV.— In Beaulieu’s Place, 381 

XXXV. — Content, 394 

XXXVI.— Too Late, 403 

XXXVII. — In London Lodgings, 4^4 

XXXVIII. — Lad5^ Kesterton’s Diamonds, . . . . 423 

XXXIX. — Face to Face, 430 

XL. — “Good-by,” 43^ 

XLI. — Misunderstanding, ...... 441 

XLII. — In the Square Gardens, 448 

XLIII. — The Clue, 455 

XLIV. — A Voyage of Discovery, ..... 462 

XLV. — At the Rectory, 468 

XLVI. — The Rector’s Story, 476 

XLVII. — Rivals and Enemies, 484 

XLVIII. — Reconciliation, ....... 491 

XLIX. — Confession, ....... 498 

L. — Recantation, ....... 505 

LI. — The Avenging Sea 512 

LII. — Compensation, 520 


SIR ANTHONY’S SECRET 


CHAPTER I. 

LADY KESTERTON’S PLANS. 

“ I THINK I may confidently assert,” said Lady Kester- 
ton, “that my son’s wife, whoever she may be, will be 
a very happy woman.” 

“Yes?” said the listener. Then, feeling that more 
than a mere interrogation was required, the Honorable 
Eva Lester hastened to add sweetly, “ I am sure you 
are right, dear Lady Kesterton. ” 

“And,” said Sir Anthony Kesterton’s mother, with 
majestic urbanity, “not only a happy, but a very for- 
tunate woman too. ” 

“ I am sure of that,” said Miss Lester, in so low a tone 
that the sentence was hardly audible to her hostess’s 
ears. But perhaps Miss Lester did not mean it to be 
heard, for it expressed more feeling than she would 
have thought it consistent with good breeding to show. 
Fortunately, Lady Kesterton was a little deaf. 

Old Lady Kesterton had once been a beauty. She 
was now a very angular old dame, stiff as buckram 
and whalebone could make her, with white hair, nut- 
cracker nose and chin, dark eyes that still were bright, 

5 


6 


SIR ANTHONY’S SECRET. 


and the grand air of one who had been accustomed all 
her life to be treated with deference. She had claims 
to authority and distinction which she never allowed 
those around her to forget. She came of a very ancient 
family, and she had been enriched, early in life, with a 
large fortune, left to her by a bachelor uncle, and settled 
upon herself before her marriage with Sir Giles Kester- 
ton, of Kesterton Park. The possession of this money 
increased her pretensions to respect. She was of an 
economical turn of mind, and managed her own affairs 
and those of the respectable Sir Giles with exemplary 
skill. When Sir Giles died, she managed better than 
ever. So that now — now when her son. Sir Anthony, 
was close upon thirty years of age — Lady Kesterton ’s 
fortune was reputed to be three times the amount that 
had been left to her. Moreover, the disposition of it 
lay entirely in her own hands. Anthony had the title, 
of course, and the house and the landed property ; but 
the estate was not a valuable one, and, without the 
prospects of Lady Kesterton’s thousands. Sir Anthony’s 
position would have been anything but brilliant. 

Two or three wise people shook their heads, and said 
it wpuld be pleasanter for Anthony Kesterton if he had 
not to depend so largely upon his mother. But the 
plan did not work at all badly. Lady Kesterton was not 
niggardly to her son, although she was a good woman 
of business. She liked him to spend money — not pro- 
fusely, but in proportion to his position in the world. 
She liked him to travel, and to have expensive rooms 
in London, and to invite his friends to his house, like 
other young men. She had not refurnished the draw- 
ing-room simply because she was waiting for Anthony’s 
intention of marriage to declare itself. When his bride 


LADY KESTERTOn'^S PLANS. 


1 


was chosen it was understood that she was prepared to 
spend money to any extent. Indeed, Lady Kesterton 
was particularly generous to him ; especially when one 
remembers that she had rigid evangelical religious 
views, and looked upon many pleasant and harmless 
things as worldly, wicked, and altogether abominable. 
But her love for her son counterbalanced a great deal of 
Calviiiistic sentiment. 

It was a pity that Sir Anthony was not a more satisfac- 
tory son to her. He was satisfactory in externals — no- 
body could deny that. He was distinguished-looking, 
always well dressed, always deferential in manner. He 
was respectable^ moreover : that is, he had apparently no 
low tastes or evil proclivities. But he was not cut out 
for the rdle of a country gentleman, and that rdle had 
always seemed to Lady Kesterton the highest in the 
world. She was too old-fashioned to have quite di- 
vested herself of the idea that it was below a gentle- 
man’s dignity to be studious; that it would beseem him 
better to be anxious about the preserves, to look after 
the kennels and the stud, rather than to spend a sun- 
shiny September day sometimes in his library over a 
well-thumbed volume of the classics. Anthony’s tastes 
were not her tastes at all. He was curious in editions, 
and luxurious in the matter of bookbinding; he had 
something of a passion for antiquarian lore. Architec- 
ture and painting came in for a share of his attention, 
and he had begun of late to develop a liking for old 
china and dainty bits of metal work. Lady Kesterton 
thought these tastes unmanly in the extreme. To add 
to her sorrows, he had complained so bitterly of her un- 
imaginative, stolid, British cook that she had been 
compelled to satisfy him by engaging a French chef (at 


8 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


something extravagant the year) in order to gratify his 
liking for what she called “foreign kickshaws.” Sir 
Anthony laid the blame on his digestion; but Lady 
Kesterton was only so much the more contemptuous. 
For what Kesterton had ever thought about his diges- 
tion before? she queried grimly. To which Sir Anthony 
blandly made the very obvious reply, that if they had 
thought about it more, he might possibly have had to 
think about it less. 

But all these shortcomings were to be forgiven, and 
all his tastes consulted, if Anthony would but gratify 
his mother in one direction. She longed — day by day 
more intensely — for Anthony to marry. She wanted to 
see him with a suitable wife at his side, and with chil- 
dren growing up about him. She had fleeting visions 
of manly, rollicking boys and graceful little girls, with 
whom she was prepared to act the doating grandmother. 
With Anthony’s wife and family to manage, to dose, to 
preach to and domineer over, she knew that she would 
have no lonely, sombre days, as she now had, when he 
was in London or on the Continent; for she had not 
the slightest intention of being turned out of the house 
when Anthony married. She would still be queen of 
the Park, and Anthony would never forget his courteous 
and conciliatory ways. “ It would hardly be worth his 
while to quarrel with me,” she said to herself, with a 
rather cynical smile; for the good old lady had a fail- 
amount of worldly wisdom and a knowledge of the 
weaknesses of human nature But she was prepared to 
be kind to Anthony and Anthony’s wife, if they were 
properly civil to her. As she had remarked this after- 
noon to Miss Lester, she considered that the future Lady 
Kesterton would be a very happy and fortunate woman. 


LADY KESTERTON’S- PLANS. 


9 


Up to a certain point, Miss Lester agreed with her. 
Otherwise, indeed, she would never have come to Kes- 
terton Park, which was not a particularly lively place 
to visit. But everybody knew why old Lady Kester- 
ton every now and then asked a perfectly eligible and 
good-looking young lady to stay with her. The young 
lady was to make herself agreeable to Sir Anthony, on 
the understanding that if he chose to propose to her 
Lady Kesterton would not object. Some young ladies 
absolutely refused to go to the Park at all on these 
grounds — “to be on view,” as they termed it. Others 
were not so particular. On the other hand, there was a 
certain distinction in being selected by Lady Kesterton 
as a possible daughter-in-law. It meant that your ped- 
igree was unimpeachable, your family reputation stain- 
less, and your personal endowment of grace and beauty 
up to a fairly high standard. In short, to be invited to 
Kesterton Park was a sort of certificate of good breed- 
ing. And Miss Lester knew it. 

The Honorable Eva Lester was six-and-twenty, and 
looked older than her years. But she was admirably 
connected, and, as Lady Kesterton was heard to say, 
“remarkably elegant.” She would have been very 
well satisfied with Eva Lester for a daughter-in-law. 

As the two ladies sat together in the drawing-room. 
Lady Kesterton surveyed Miss Lester critically, and 
thought that she was looking her best. The young 
lady’s cheeks had flushed a little during the conversa- 
tion, and a color was always becoming to Mi.ss Lester, 
of whose face and expression coldness was a distinguish- 
ing characteristic. She was nearly always pale, and her 
regular features seldom betrayed her feelings. Her 
nose was somewhat unusually long, and her upper lip 


lo 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


likewise. Her abundant pale-colored hair was elabo- 
rately dressed, and her gowns were always well -fitting 
and becoming. Miss Lester’s hair and gowns, and her 
tall, slender figure, constituted .her chief claims to dis- 
tinction; for the regular features, gray-blue eyes and 
almost colorless eyebrows and lashes of her face, some- 
times left an impression of utter commonplaceness upon 
the mind of an observer. Lady Kesterton always main- 
tained, however, that Eva would grow handsomer with 
advancing years. 

She wore on this occasion a very pale blue dress, with 
silver ornaments, and sat upright in one of the’ high- 
backed chairs in a way which Lady Kesterton approved. 
There was never any approach to lounging or to sloven- 
liness in Eva’s appearance or attitudes. She was always 
erect, dignified, unapproachable. One could not imag- 
ine that a speck of dirt would ever adhere to that smooth 
clear skin, or that those elaborate braids of hair could 
ever be disarranged. Lady Kesterton looked and ap- 
proved. She also could be severe, erect, and dignified ; 
her snow-white curls, her stiff black satins, magnificent 
velvets, and antique laces were as perfect in their de- 
tails as Eva’s modest gowns; there was something a 
little fierce even in the old lady’s gold-rimmed eye- 
glasses and judicial frown which was apt to frighten 
timid persons. Yet, fierce and rigid as she appeared, 
there was a far warmer heart and finer nature beneath 
that somewhat repelling exterior than could be found 
in all the cultivated personality of the Honorable Eva 
Lester. 

“ Do you know where Anthony has gone, my dear?”’ 
Lady Kesterton inquired, 

“ He spoke of the fir plantation at the back of the 


LADY KESTERTON'S PLANS. 


II 


West Lodge,” said Eva. “I think he must have been 
going in that direction.” 

“ I should rather like a little walk,” said the old lady 
reflectively. “ If you have no objection, my dear, we 
will take a turn in the park. I have not been out to-day. ” 

“I shall be delighted,” Miss Lester replied. Then, 
glancing out of one of the windows, she said, “ There is 
Philip on the terrace; shall he come too?” 

“What a nuisance boys are!” exclaimed Lady Kes- 
terton, rather crossly. “Always in the way! I cannot 
think why Anthony likes to. have him here. How- 
ever, ” — after a moment’s hesitation — “ he may be useful 
to us. Call him and tell him that he can carry my bas- 
ket for me. I am going to take some wine and jelly to 
the lodge-keeper’s wife.” 

She took up her ebony gold-mounted staff, which 
she used more as a symbol of authority than a means of 
support, while Miss Lester opened the window and 
beckoned to the boy upon the terrace. A momentary 
smile flickered on her lips as she did so. Lady Kester- 
ton’s mind was an open volume to her; and in the order 
conveyed to Philip Winyates she read the conviction of 
the old lady that a party of four was sometimes more 
convenient than one of three, and that if Sir Anthony 
happened to be met on the road, he could escort Miss 
Lester, while the boy Philip afforded his companionship 
to Lady Kesterton. 

Eva’s eyes rested on a pleasant scene as she stood at 
the drawing-room window. Before the house ran the 
terrace with its stately stone balustrades garlanded 
with Virginia creeper, and its tall vases overflowing 
with geranium and calceolaria. Beyond the terrace 
lay the velvety sward of the well-mown lawn, its green- 


12 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


ness broken here and there by masses of brilliant color ; 
and further still, the smooth sweep of undulating 
ground, by which the lawn glided almost imperceptibly 
into rougher park-ground, shadowed by the branches of 
venerable oaks and elms. An opening in the foliage, 
caused partly by a certain dip in the ground, had been 
taken advantage of and artificially enlarged, in order to 
afford a glimpse of the not far distant sea, and the 
sparkle of the blue water lent an additional charm to 
the soft luxuriance of vegetation that surrounded the 
old gray house. Without it, the vicinity of the rather 
overgrown park might have made the view, to many 
eyes, seem dull ; but the magic of distance, of constant 
change, of a vivid freshness, was added to it by that 
never-to-be-forgotten “ purple patch ” of ocean against 
the horizon line. 

Miss Lester looked and sighed. She would very 
much have liked to be mistress of such a fair demesne, 
but she, was not sanguine about her chances of obtain- 
ing that enviable post. Sir Anthony was very courte- 
ous and attentive ; she felt sure that she pleased his 
judgment and his taste ; but she had seen no approach 
to a warmer emotion in his calm and critical eyes. She 
liked Sir Anthony very much; indeed, in her tepid 
way, she was really in love with him. But she cared 
far more for the prospect of being mistress of Kester- 
ton Park than of becoming Anthony Kesterton’s wife. 

Philip, Lady Kesterton would like you to walk 
across the Park with us. She wants you to carry her 
basket. ” 

Miss Lester spoke in curiously cool tones. She was 
not very fond of this boy, young Philip Winyates, 
although Sir Anthony chose to make a sort of pet of 


LADY KESTERTON*S PLANS. 


13 


him. He was the son of a very distant connection of ' 
the Kestertons, an orphan and penniless. Sir Anthony 
had sent him to school, and usually invited him to the 
Park during- his holidays. 

“ I shall be delighted, Miss Lester. Shall I wait, for 
Lady Kesterton at the garden-door?’" 

“Just keep within sight, on the terrace, please. We 
shall see you there when we want you.” And Miss 
Lester closed the window. 

“She always speaks to me as if I were her servant,” 
said the boy to himself, his sensitive face flushing as he 
turned away. He was fourteen, tall for his age and 
rather delicate-looking, bright and pleasant of counte- 
nance without being exactly handsome, but with a fine, 
well-developed brow and beautiful brown eyes, giving 
promise of unusually great intelligence. It was partly 
on account of this intelligence that he was so great a 
favorite with Sir Anthony, who valued intellectual 
power (in his own sex) more than any other quality. 
But, like Sir Anthony himself, he was too fond of books 
to find favor in Lady Kesterton ’s eyes; and Miss Lester 
treated him with a cold hauteur which gave little 
promise of friendly relations between them should she 
ever become mistress of the Park. 

The trio started forth together, however, with all the 
appearance of friendship and amiability. Lady Kester- 
ton was in a good ‘humor, and encouraged the boy to 
talk. Although she was not fond of him, she liked his 
fresh, naive chatter better than Miss Lester’s rather 
stilted remarks on a narrow range of subjects. They 
reached at last a portion of the enclosure through which 
there was a right of way from the village of Kesterton 
to the sea : it was an old privilege of the villagers at 


14 


SIR Anthony's secret. 


which Sir Anthony often grumbled, but which Lady 
Kesterton stoutly maintained. The way to the West 
Lodge lay along the trodden footway; and it was in 
consequence of this “ right of way” that a little incident 
occurred which none of the persons concerned were 
ever very likely to forget. 

A withered crone, almost doubled with age, carrying 
on her back a bundle of seaweed, came down the path 
and dropped a curtsey to my lady on meeting her. 
Lady Kesterton put up her gold-rimmed eye-glass, and 
frowned majestically at the salutation, then suddenly 
stopped short. 

“You are a stranger here,” she said. “Where do 
you come from?” 

“ I comes from Noffolk way, my lady, to live wi’ my 
darter; her that be Derrick’s wife, my lady. My name, 
.it’s Nanny Moggs. ” 

“ Derrick — the lodge keeper?” 

“Aye, my lady. He be main kind to me, him an’ 
my darter too. ” 

“ Why do )’ou carry that bundle there?” said Lady 
Kesterton, rather sharply. “ It’s too heavy for you.” 

“Let me carry it for her,” cried Philip, hastily and 
heartily. “ It is much too heavy — and I can carry it 
with the basket too.” 

“There’s no occasion, young master,” said the old 
woman. “It aint half so heavy as many a load I’ve 
carried during the last few years. You see, my lady, 
my darter didn t know how useful the seaweed could be 
both in the garden and for fuel, and for a bed now and 
then, when dried, so I brought her up a bundle or two 
to try it. No, sir, it aint one bit too heavy; and I 


LADY KESTERTON’s PLANS. 


15 

wouldn’t like you to demean yerself a- touching of it. 
But I thank you kindly, all the same.” 

“ I will call and see you some day, ” said Lady Kes- 
terton, in a tone that was meant to be kindly but sounded 
rather threatening. “ Come along, Philip. ” 

For Philip had hung behind to slip a coin into the old 
woman’s hand. She said something in reply which 
caused him to laugh as he ran forward. 

“ She offered to tell my fortune,” he said, still laugh- 
ing. “ She says she can do it by looking at my hand.” 

Lady Kesterton stood still in her displeasure. 

“ Fortune telling ! Palmistry!” she said. “ Does she 
not know that such abominable and illegal practices are 
forbidden on our land?” 

Philip was somewhat startled by her anger, but Miss 
Lester interposed with a trifle more eagerness than 
usual — 

“Oh, dear Lady Kesterton, do let us see what she 
will say. I have often longed to have my fortune told. 
Here,” — plucking off her glove, and turning hastily 
to the old woman, who had been plodding along behind 
them — “look at my hand, and tell me what my for- 
tune is. " 

“I do not approve of such heathenish proceedings,” 
said Lady Kesterton. But she did not like to put too 
much restraint on the liberty of a guest, and therefore 
stood in the mossy path frowning impatiently, but not 
actually declining to listen to what the old crone said. 
Eva, with a half laugh, handed a shilling to the for- . 
tune- teller, and extended her slender palm. 

“There’s a marriage before ye,” said Nanny Moggs. 

“ Eh, and a fine marriage, too; but not so soon as ye’re 


i6 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


maybe thinking, my lady. Not for a few years jet. 
And ye’ll marry a widower with children of his own, 
and have fine lands and houses, and be a lucky woman. 
But, luck changes sometimes, ye must remember ; and 
there’s a dividing of ways when ye don’t think of it.” 

“ What rubbish is she talking?” said Lady Kesterton, 
angrily; while Eva, surprised and disappointed, drew 
back her hand. 

“It is just the ordinary conventional prophecy,” she 
said, trying to disguise her real feeling. “ I thought 
that in the country — with an unsophisticated ‘country 
wife ’ one might hear something a little more out of the 
way.” 

“I did not know that you were superstitious,” said 
Lady Kesterton, coldly. 

“Tell me my fortune, too,” said Philip, holding out 
his hand. 

“Yours, my young master? Eh, your fortune’s 
hardly written yet,” said the old woman, chuckling to 
herself. “ The babe’s yet unborn that will be the girl 
you love, my honey. But there’s good luck in store for 
you yet; for you’re a northern lad, and you will be 
master of land which was once water and waste and 
shall be water once again. ” 

She said the last words in an odd recitative or chant, 
which half awed the boy, yet made him feel inclined 
to laugh; but when he glanced at Lady Kesterton the 
mirth went out of his face at once. The old lady had 
grown livid, apparently with rage, and her eyes flashed 
lightning of wrath, first at the boy and then at Nanny 
Moggs. 

.“Take your hand away, Philip,” she said. “And 


LADY KESTERTON’S PLANS. 


17 


you — how dare you mix yourself up with our family 
affairs, woman? If I hear of you telling fortunes again, 
or quoting our traditions, I shall have you prosecuted 
at once — do you hear? So take care!” 

She turned and walked onward very fast toward the 
lodge gate, while Miss Lester and Philip followed at a 
somewhat less rapid pace. At the gate Lady Kester- 
ton, still white with anger, faced them again. 

“Don’t let me see you in the park any more,” she 
said to the old crone. “ Go round by the cliff if you 
want seaweed. Never set foot within these gates 
again.” 

Then Philip, being young and unadvised, took upon 
himself to intercede. “Oh, Lady Kesterton, ” he said, 
“ you don’t mean that surely! It is such a long way by 
the cliff.” 

“ What business have you to interfere?” cried she, 
turning upon him with flaming eyes. “What right 
have you to say a word as to how I deal with my son’s 
tenants? This comes of listening to servants’ talk, and 
trying to curry favor with my son. But you do it in 
my presence at your peril.” 

And lifting her ebony cane with a still vigorous right 
hand, she brought it down sharply on the shoulders of 
the astonished lad. who scarcely knew what he had 
done amiss. 


2 


CHAPTER II. 

SIR Anthony’s choice. 


In another moment Lady Kesterton and Miss Lester 
were left alone. Old Mrs. Moggs hobbled away as fast 
as her legs would carry her; and Philip rushed off 
through the park in a frenzy of wounded feeling and 
resentment. Miss Lester would very much have liked 
to ask the meaning of her hostess’s sudden anger, but 
she was far too discreet to do any such thing. She 
simply picked up the basket of good things for the 
lodge-keeper’s wife, which Philip had hastily thrown 
down, and walked by the side of Lady Kesterton, who, 
with quickened breath and hurrying feet, made the best 
of her way to the lodge. 

Eva did not enter the picturesque little dwelling. 
Lady Kesterton ’s big figure, her satin skirts and silk- 
lined cloak always took up so much room in the cot- 
tages that it was better for any other visitor to remain 
away. On this occasion Lady Kesterton did not stay 
long. There was a look of relief and satisfaction in 
her face when she came out again, as if Mrs. Derrick’s 
apologies and protestations had put her into a better 
temper. She talked quite pleasantly to Eva for a little 
time ; and never suspected that Eva was seriously con- 
sidering her as quite a new kind of drawback to a mar- 
riage with Sir Anthony. Just to think of such a 
temper! For an old lady tool— and to strike a boy 

i8 


SIR Anthony's choice. 


19 

with a stick ! Miss Lester was shocked, and, to tell the 
truth, a little frightened. 

“ We’ll go round by the plantation, ” said Lady Kester- 
ton, quite cheerfully. “ Mary Derrick says that Anthony 
is there. It wants thinning a bit. This way, my dear. ” 

“ This way ” was through a wicket-gate on the other 
side of the road, just opposite the lodge. Beyond it lay 
a rising ground, thickly dotted with fir-trees, crowded 
together still more visibly as they neared the top of the 
hill. 

“ Here we are at the top !” said the old lady at last, 
in an amiable voice. “ It is a charming view, is it not? 
We have the sea before us, and the ground slopes away 
from this point toward — ” 

She did not finish her sentence. She was looking 
complacently down the hill-side when her eye lighted 
upon a couple — a man and woman — who were standing 
beside a little heathery knoll overshadowed by a great 
elm tree, possibly in the belief that they could not be 
observed. The man wore brown shooting-clothes, the 
girl a gay pink cotton frock and white sun-bonnet ; her 
face was upturned to his, and his arm was round her 
waist. He was about to kiss her — yes, he bent his 
head, there and then, and kissed her on the mouth. 
He was a tall, good-looking man, and she was as beau- 
tiful as the day, so that, from a purely human point of 
view, they were a capital m^ch for each other; but 
then Lady Kesterton did not regard them simply from 
a human point of view. For the man was her son. Sir 
Anthony; and the woman — well. Lady Kesterton did 
not know her name, but it was plain that she was a 
country wench of some sort — a milkmaid, or perhaps a 
keeper’s daughter. 


20 


SIR ANTHONY’S SECRET. 


She seized Miss Lester’s arm almost violently, and 
pushed her back. “Don’t look! Don’t look!” she 
cried. “We will go back.” Then, repenting of her 
impetuosity, she added, as they retraced their steps, 

“ Some foolish flirtation going on. Not at all a proper 
thing,” and she looked at Eva apprehensively. Per- 
haps, after all, Miss Lester had not seen? And in that 
case Lady Kesterton was not going to tell her. 

But Eva had seen, and knew — perhaps better than 
Lady Kesterton could have told her — how much was 
signified by the embrace which they had witnessed. 
For Sir Anthony was by nature a cold man and a fas- 
tidious one, and not given to kissing for kissing’s sake. 
Miss Lester felt herself slightly insulted by the prefer- 
ence he had manifested, and planned a return home 
upon the morrow. 

Sir Anthony did not appear at afternoon tea. He 
presented himself as usual five minutes before dinner- 
time ; cool, immaculate, courteous, and refined as ever. 
Miss Lester caught herself looking at him with curios- 
ity ; she wondered how he could manage to be so uncon- 
cerned. And Lady Kesterton was funereal in her 
solemnity. 

Eva retired early to her room, and Sir Anthony went 
to the library. But he was not to remain undisturbed. 
To his very great surprise, his mother walked majesti- 
cally into the room, and seated herself on a chair near his 
own with the air of one who wished for a conversation. 

“This is an unexpected honor,” said Sir Anthony. 
“Will you not take a more comfortable chair, mother?” 

“ Thank you, Anthony, I am comfortable where I 
am. May I trouble you to lay down your book for a 
moment or two? I have something to say,” 


SIR Anthony’s choice. 


21 


Her son slightly elevated his eyebrows, and rather 
reluctantly obeyed, leaving a paper-cutter inside the 
book at the point which he had reached. Lady Kester- 
ton glanced at the title and shuddered. It was a vol- 
ume of poems just issued, remarkable, as she had read 
in an Evangelical review, for its beauty of diction and 
corruptness of sentiment. If this was the kind of book 
which Anthony was reading, small wonder if he wooed 
a fair peasant maiden in the soft September days ! 

He was certainly very distinguished-looking — thor- 
oughly aristocratic, if a fine, white skin, clearly cut 
thin features, and peculiarly beautiful hands may be 
considered to betoken aristocracy of race. He had 
gray eyes, very soft dark hair on his head, but neither 
beard nor moustache. His face had nothing of the 
unfinished look which sometimes stamps the counte- 
nance of the uncultured. Every feature seemed to 
have been chiselled with extreme care. But the nose 
was a little too long, the eyes a trifle too close together, 
the nostrils a little pinched. 

Lady Kesterton, however, thought him very hand- 
some. It was the very strength of her belief in his 
beauty and virtues that made her voice tremble as she 
spoke. 

“Anthony, I am exceedingly distressed.” 

“ I am sorry to hear it, mother.” 

“ I went out with Miss Lester this afternoon about 
four, and we made our way to the fir-tree plantation.” 

Here Anthony began to look disturbed. 

“ When I reached the top of the hill I looked down, 
and — I saw — need I tell you what I saw? — my son and 
a — a young woman — ” 

Sir Anthony’s complexion was of the cameo-like pal- 


22 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


lor which does not often vary; but at this point it 
became suffused with a dull red. 

“Well, mother?” he said quietly. 

“ Is it possible, my dear son, that you were kissinq 
that girl !” 

There was a moment’s pause. The horror in Lady 
Kesterton’s voice was not to be mistaken — nor trifled 
with. Sir Anthony felt that. 

“ I suppose I must plead guilty,” he said, with a cool 
little laugh. “She is the prettiest girl I have ever 
seen, and these country lasses think little of a kiss or 
two. My dear mother, you need not alarm yourself. 
I am not going to inflict a dairy-maid upon you by way 
of a wife.” 

He spoke with an inflection of languid scorn, and his 
attitude was the perfection of carelessness. He looked 
as though he were studying the scarlet silk sock and 
patent leather shoe which adorned his well-shaped foot, 
and thinking of nothing else. But when he had sur- 
veyed them long enough he gave his mother a quick, 
almost a furtive, glance, which spoke of an undeviat- 
ing watchfulness. Sir Anthony was largely dependent 
upon his mother, and rather afraid of her — two facts 
which he never by any chance forgot. 

“ I am glad to hear that there was nothing serious in 
it,” said Lady Kesterton. “ I must warn you that such 
practices tend to deprave the female mind and lower 
your own character in the neighborhood ; and- 1 must 
beg that such an occurrence be not repeated.” 

“Very well, mother. I can safely promise you 
that. 

“ And what was the name of the young woman?” said 
Lady Kesterton. 


SIR Anthony's choice. 


23 

“Upon my word,” said Anthony, lazily, “I don’t 
know.” 

“You do not know? And yet you adopted that very 
affectionate attitude toward her! I assure you that I 
was deeply grieved and shocked. You must know the 
girl’s name. ” 

“ If you saw the girl, you probably know it better 
than I do I was merely struck by her pretty face.” 

“It is my impression,” said Lady Kesterton, “that 
the girl is a stranger to the village. I did not recog- 
nize her face. ” 

‘‘Thank Heaven!” thought the man before her; but 
he only smiled and moved his fingers toward the green 
book upon the table. Lady Kesterton understood the 
hint. 

‘‘ I am going now,” she said, rising, “but though you 
have taken a load from my breast by what you have 
now told me, I must yet add a word, Anthony, of warn- 
ing against that levity of mind and want of principle 
which — ” 

“ Oh, my dear mother, you are making too much out 
of a trifle,” said Sir Anthony, with some impatience of 
manner. “ I assure you there was nothing in it, and I 
am very sorry. Will not that content you?” 

It did not altogether content her, and he had to 
resign himself to a severely moral lecture, of which it 
may be conjectured that he did not hear one word in 
ten. When his mother had at length taken her depart- 
ure, he meditated for a few moments before he re- 
opened his book of verse. “ I must tell the little mouse 
to keep out of the old cat’s way,” he said to himself, 
with a smile lingering upon his lips, as he once more 
handled the paper-cutter. 


24 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


While Lady Kesterton was interviewing her son in 
the library, Philip Winyates was soothing his wounded 
feelings by a gossip with his particular friend, Mrs. 
Bates, the house-keeper. Mrs. Bates was a motherly 
woman, who petted the orphan boy and gave him more 
tenderness than he got from any one else. And it was 
to her that he confided the story of his wrongs in the 
park that afternoon. He did not tell old Bates that 
Lady Kesterton had struck him ; that seemed to him an 
indignity too great to be put into words. But he 
wanted to know why she should have been so angry. 

“Why, my dear,” said Mrs. Bates soothingly, “Mrs. 
Moggs must have got hold of that queer old rhyme 
that’s scratched on the wall of the Priest’s Hole 
upstairs. You mind the Priest’s Hole, don’t you? A 
secret room it used to be, but there’s not much secret 
about it nowadays. And all the country-side knows 
the rhyme. ” 

“I don’t know it,” said Philip in an injured tone. 
“ Tell it me — do.” 

“ Well, let me see! It’s a sort o’ prophecy, you know 
— not that I hold with such rubbage myself. But this 
is how it runs : 

‘ Before the Northman is master 
Of land which is water and waste, 

Kester’s lord shall see disaster ; 

Nor shall there be end to sorrow and pain 
Till the land which was water be water again.’ ” 

“That sounds like nonsense,” said Master Philip, 
decisively. , 

“ So it does, my dear. But there’s more sense in it 
than you’d think. For the main part of the Kesterton 
estate, all the part near the village and up the chine, was 


SIR Anthony’s choice. 


25 


once water and waste indeed. It’s what they call 
reclaimed land, and it’s the richest and best bit of land 
Sir Anthony has. Well, when that silly old woman 
said that yon were a Northern lad, and would be master 
some day of land that is all waste and water, don’t you 
see that she was foretelling disaster for Sir Anthony? 
It was that which made my lady so angry and put out.” 

“ But what nonsense ! ' Does Lady Kesterton really 
believe it?” 

“ No, of course not, my dear. But she don’t like to 
hear evil foretold of the master — which is natural 
enough. And this old Mother Moggs, as some people 
call her, must have had a wicked, bad temper, and been 
an old silly, too, to have mentioned it. For it’s not 
very likely, for one thing. Master Philip, ” eyeing the 
boy meditatively, “ that you’ll ever come to be master 
of the land down by the shore. ” 

“Not a bit,” said Philip, laughing and yawning. 
“ And the last thing I wish is disaster to the lord of 
Kesterton. So good night. Bates.” 

“Eh, dear,” ejaculated the old woman, looking after 
him reflectively; “but for all I said it wasn’t likely, it 
is a possible thing, seeing as how Sir Anthony’s so fond 
of him. And if Sir Anthony didn’t marry, after all, 
there’s no saying how the property would go.” 

It did not seem as if Sir Anthony intended to marry. 
Miss Lester, to whom he had paid no attentions worth 
mentioning, left the house in a few days, and was not 
succeeded by any other young lady visitor. Lady Kes- 
terton had apparently given up her attempts to procure 
a suitable bride for him. And before six months had 
passed away, she became almost an invalid from the 
effects of a paralytic attack. Her brain remained quite 


26 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


clear, but her lower limbs were affected, and the doc- 
tors declared that she would never walk again. 

After this event it was noticed that Sir Anthony be- 
came more and more of a recluse. Half the house was 
shut up, and several of the servants — including the 
worthy Mrs. Bates and the butler — were pensioned off 
or sent away. Sir Anthony fell into the way of inviting 
few guests to the house, and of accepting no invitations. 
It was understood that he intended to lead the life of a 
student and a scholar, and that he would one day pub- 
lish some very remarkable book. In the mean time he 
shut himself up and was seldom seen outside the 
grounds. 

But, unknown to him. Lady Kesterton’s vigorous 
constitution was rapidly gaining the day over the dis- 
ease that had assailed her. Long before her son was 
aware of the fact, she was able to walk about her rooms. 
The doctor’s prognostications had always been scouted 
by the old lady. And a day came when Lady Kesterton 
felt so remarkably brisk and well that she resolved to 
take a walk down the long corridor outside her bed- 
room, and have a look at some of the old rooms upon 
her way. She was quite sure, she said to herself, that 
they were smothered in dust, and — in the absence of 
Sir Anthony for the day, and the temporary disappear- 
ance of her nurse — she meant to go and see. 

She was so much shocked at the appearace of some of 
the rooms that she went farther than she had intended. 
And at last, pushing open a green baize door — where 
she remembered, by the bye, that no baize door used to 
be— she found herself in that portion of the house known 
as the West Wing, which had not been in use for many 
years. Now, however, it seemed to be inhabited, for 


SIR Anthony’s choice. 


27 


the sounds of voices and laughter reached her from one 
of the rooms. She was not equal to going up and down 
stairs, but she was strong enough to walk straight on. 
She went to the door from which the sounds seemed to 
proceed, and pushed it open. Then she stood on the 
threshold, angry, startled, and amazed. 

For there sat a woman of remarkable beauty — the 
woman whom Lady Kesterton had once lectured her 
son for kissing — with needlework in her hand, and an 
indescribable air of being perfectly at home. And on 
the floor beside her, with the same air of intimacy and 
enjoyment, sat two lovely children — a girl and boy — ■ 
playing with a kitten and some toys. 

Lady Kesterton stood aghast. 


CHAPTER III. 


THE WEST WING. 

“What upon earth is the meaning of this?” cried 
Lady Kesterton. 

The woman rose and curtseyed. She also changed 
color and began to tremble, stepping forward a little as 
though to hide the children behind her skirts. 

“Who are you?” her ladyship demanded, with the 
frown which even Sir Anthony found terrible. “ What 
business have you here?” 

“ I am the housekeeper, my lady,” said the girl — she 
looked but a girl in years — very deprecatingly, 

“ The housekeeper ! Stuff and nonsense ! If you are 
the housekeeper, why don’t you come to me in the morn- 
ing for orders? Not that I should have ever permitted 
you to call yourself housekeeper; under-housemaid is 
about your status in the house,” said Lady Kesterton 
very grimly. “Who told you that you were ‘house- 
keeper,’ eh?” 

There was a slight hesitation ; then the girl looked 
straight into the old lady’s eyes and answered, 

“ Sir Anthony, my lady.” 

This reply was so utterly unexpected by Lady Kester- 
ton that she was obliged to sit down, for she felt as if 
the solid earth were collapsing beneath her feet. 

“ What is your name?” she asked. 

“ Mary Paston — Mrs. Paston, my lady. ” 

28 


THE WEST WING. 


29 


“ You are married?” said the old lady severely. 

The crimson rushed to the girl’s brow, but she still 
looked Lady Kesterton straight in the face. “Yes, 
ma’am, I’m married. There’s my ring,” she said, 
holding out a hand which was wonderfully white and 
shapely for one in her rank of life. “ I’ve been mar- 
ried these four years and more. ” 

“ And pray, where is your husband?” 

“ He is dead, my lady. He was a seafaring man, and 
was lost on his way to Australia.” 

“And are these his children?” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

The girl’s answers were unflinchingly direct, and if it 
had not been for her habit of blushing, and a look of 
distress in her clear eyes. Lady Kesterton would hardly 
have doubted the truth of these statements. The old 
lady sat and meditated, observing the woman and her 
children meanwhile. It was certainly the girl to whom 
she had suspected Anthony of making love, and a beau- 
tiful creature she was too. Not one of the family por 
traits in the gallery represented a lovelier woman. She 
was slight and supple and yet rounded, with an untu- 
tored grace of movement which was most seductive ; her 
skin was white, with a rich glow of color in the cheeks 
and on the full curved lips ; her eyes blue, and her hair 
of the true auburn tint. To Lady Kesterton ’s disgust, 
this hair was not concealed beneath a cap; it was coiled 
loosely at the back of her well-shaped head. Her dress, 
moreover, was not that of a servant ; it was plain, but 
well-made, and of soft, fine gray cashmere, such as any 
lady might have worn, and the onlj trace of an un- 
tutored taste lay in the presence of a big red bow and 
a rather staring brooch, with which she had decorated 


30 


SIR ANTHONY’S SECRET. 


the front of her pretty frock., She wore a white apron, 
certainly, but so might anybody w’ho had a baby only 
a few months old, ready at any moment to climb into 
her lap. 

Lady Kesterton looked at her, frowning, twitching 
with anger and excitement, but not knowing precisely 
what to say or do. 

Are these your children?” she said at last. 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

“Come here, child.” Lady Kesterton spoke to the 
girl, who seemed to be about three years old, and the 
child, terrified by her harsh looks, hid her face in the 
folds of the woman’s gown. “ Do you hear me? Come 
here at once, little girl.” 

But the child only flapped one tiny hand at her and 
cried in an imperious, childish voice : 

“Go ’way! go ’way!” 

“ You should teach your children to obey their supe- 
riors,” said Lady Kesterton sharply, “ Make her come 
to me at once!” 

“Come, Elfie,” said Mary Paston, stooping down and 
trying to detach the clinging fingers from her gown, 
“ turn round and speak to the lady like a good girl. 
Turn round and don’t be naughty ; do what your mother 
tells you, and she’ll give you some goodies by-and- 
by.” 

“ I should not give her goodies, I should give her 
something else, which she seems to deserve,” said Lady 
Kesterton grimly. “Oh, she’s coming now, is she? 
Well, what’s your name?” 

The little thing stared at her out of a pair of solemn 
gray eyes with black lashes— where had Lady Kesterton 
seen such eyes before? not in poor Mary Paston’s face !— 


THE WEST WING. 3I 

and uttered her name with precocious clearness of enun- 
ciation. “ Elfrida,” she said. 

Lady Kesterton, who had bent forward a little, sud- 
denly drew herself erect. “ What business had you to 
take that name for your child?” she said. It was a 
well-known name among the Kestertons. It had been 
borne by a daughter of her own who had died very 
young. Mary hung her head and did not reply. 

Lady Kesterton observed the children in silence for a 
moment. The little girl had not her mother’s beauty, 
but she had far more than her mother’s refinement and 
delicacy of outline. Mary’s beauty, great though it 
was, belonged to the kind which sometimes coarsens 
with lapse of years ; but it was difficult to imagine any 
coarsening process in connection with Elfrida’s daintily 
finished features. She was dressed in a loose white 
frock trimmed with embroidery and fine Valenciennes 
lace . 

The boy — a child of fifteen months old — was start- 
lingly like his mother. He had the same coloring, the 
same blue eyes and ruddy golden hair. There was no 
doubt as to his being Mary Paston’s son. But Lady 
Kesterton looked most at Elfrida — whose name was 
scarcely appropriate to her eyes and hair. 

“ I am very much surprised,” she said at last, in her 
grating tones, “that you have never reported yourself 
to me. I suppose you understand that I am the mistress 
of this house?” 

AVith a little curtsey Mary answered, “ Yes, my lady.” 

“ And that I — no one else — not even my son — I en- 
gage the servants?” 

“ Yes, my lady.” 

“ And dismiss them, as I choose?” 


32 


SIR ANTHONY’S SECRET. 


“ Yes, my lady,” 

But Mary’s cheek began to pale, a quiver disturbed 
the curves of her rich, red mouth. She began to sus- 
pect what Lady Kesterton’s next words would be. 

“Very well. Then I dismiss you— do you under- 
stand? You may go, and take your children with you. 
Do they always live here with you, I should like to 
know?” 

“Yes, ma’am. But, oh, my lady, we don’t do no 
harm; don’t turn us out!” said Mary Paston, beginning 
to cry. 

She was a stupid woman, with all her beauty, and a 
woman without spirit ; and she did herself no good by 
shedding tears in the presence of Lady Kesterton, who 
took them for a confession of guilt. 

“ I shall certainly turn you out — and at once. Who 
gave you permission to use the west wing, I should like 
to know? Such impertinence! Pack up your things at 
once, and be gone ! I will give you an hour — and then 
the servants will have orders to turn you out of doors 
whether you are ready or not. ” 

“ My lady — oh, my lady ! If you will but wait until 
Sir Anthony comes home, and hear what he has to 
say!” cried Mary, driven to a desperate appeal, which 
availed her worse than nothing. “ It was the master 
that told me to come,” she sobbed. “ He said so — and 
I can’t go — I can’t, until he comes back.” 

Lady Kesterton’s face grew absolutely pitiless. “ You 
will go this instant,” she said, “ and your clothes can be 
sent after you. I am perfectly certain that you are not 
fit to remain under a respectable roof. My house and 
my son’s house shall not be polluted any longer—” 

“ Oh, my lady, I must speak — I must make you under- 


THE WEST WING. 


33 


stand,” sobbed Mary, snatching up her baby and press- 
ing it to her bosom, as if to defend herself with that 
tiny morsel of humanity. “ I am his wife, my lady — 
Sir Anthony’s lawful wedded wife — and these are his 
children, and will bear his name.” 

Lady Kesterton rose to her feet, trying to utter an 
indignant protest ; but the effort that she had already 
made had been too much for her. She could neither 
speak nor move ; but she fell sideways half off her chair, 
and Mary, perceiving the situation, put down the baby 
and went to her aid. 

Two days and nights elapsed before Lady Kesterton 
recovered consciousness. At last, on a mild summer- 
like May evening, she opened her eyes and found her- 
self in her own bed, in her own room. A nurse sat be- 
side her; a small fire crackled in the grate. It took 
Lady Kesterton some time to collect her scattered 
senses ; but, as she by-and-by perceived, they had been 
scattered only, and not destroyed. Her memory re- 
turned; her judgment, her keen sense of what was 
right and wrong ; her love for her son, and her ambition 
for his future. But with all this, she could not move a 
limb. She could speak a little, she presently found 
out — thickly and indistinctly, though so as to be 'Under- 
stood — but she would never move of her own free-will 
from her bed again. She heard the nurse and the 
servants come and go; she saw her son’s face at her 
bedside; yet for some hours she felt she had not the 
strength to ask the question which yet she would have 
given a great deal to have answered. But at last she 
stammered it forth to Anthony, when he bent to kiss 
the withered face. 

“ Is — is she I ” 

3 


34 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


No change came over Anthony’s impassive features. 

He feigned not to have understood the question, 
looked round for the nurse, and then drew back, giving 
no answer. But Lady Kesterton was quite determined, 
ill as she was, to have an answer. 

For another four-and-twenty hours it had to be post- 
poned. In her weak state she could not detain him. 
She sent the nurse away as soon as he appeared. 

“ Now, answer me,” she said, so clearly that he could 
not pretend to misunderstand. “ That girl — Paston — is 
she gone?” 

Sir Anthony smiled serenely. “ Poor Mary,” he said. 
“ Gone ! Why should she go?” 

“ Is she — your wife? She told me she was your wife. ” 

“You must have misunderstood her; she could not 
say so. ” He spoke quite carelessly, and in his usual 
tone. 

“ She was lying? She is nothing to you, then? Or 
is she — ” 

“She is nothing at all to me,” he said, cutting short 
the question that he knew was coming next. 

“ Then — you will send her away? Perhaps she is 
gone?” 

Sir Anthony made a gesture of unutterable impa- 
tience. “No, she is not gone,” he said, after a 
moment’s pause, “ and I do not intend her to go. You 
forget that this is my house, and that I may surely have 
some little voice in its management. Mrs. Paston is a 
very useful woman in her way, and she cannot be sent 
away at a moment’s notice. It is unfair to her to 
suggest it. ” 

He moved away from the bed, uncomfortably con- 
scious of his mother’s gaze. He wished he could be 


THE WEST WING. 


35 


certain that he was not looking guilty. After two or 
three minutes’ profound silence there came a whisper 
from the bed — a whisper indeed, but so sharply sibilant 
that it was perfectly distinct. 

“You are telling me lies — lies — lies!’’ she said. Sir 
Anthony’s pale features flushed violently, and the veins 
in his temples seemed to swell. He was far more ex- 
cited than he had as yet thought it expedient to let his 
mother know. A sort of exasperation — the defiance of 
a man who had practised a useless deception for years-^ 
crept over him now. 

“What if I am?” he said. “There are some things 
about which a man does not choose to tell the truth 
when he is questioned. I am thirty-four years of age : 
I can surely take my own way in my own house when I 
please? You have trampled on my tastes, my studies, 
my pastimes all my life, as you trampled on my father’s — 
because you were rich : not because we thought you bet- 
ter or wiser than ourselves, but because you were rich, 
Now, do you understand the position? I have spoken 
the truth for once; how much more of it do you want?” 

He was fierce, brutal in his anger; but his voice pre- 
served the quiet, polished intonation so characteristic of 
his habits and of his race. He could speak words that 
were cruel and coarse ; but it was quite impossible for 
a man of his breeding and culture to elevate his voice. 

Lady Kesterton’s face changed and quivered wofully 
as she listened to him. Then it grew quiet again and 
her eyes began to wander. “My money,” she said — 
“oh yes, my money! Yes, I know I am rich. But the 
money is not tied up. I can leave it as I like. I need 
not leave it — to Anthony — unless I choose. ” 

It was evident that she did not know that she spoke 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


36 

aloud. Anthony moved to the foot of the bed and 
regarded her with darkening brows. 

“ I have made my will,” said the sick woman, with a 
weird smile, “ to my son and his heirs — so much to the 
eldest boy, and so much for the eldest girl, and so 
much for the others. But none for Mary Paston’s 
children— no, no, no! I will not have Mary Paston’s 
children for my heirs; do you hear that, Anthony?” 

“Well, mother!” said the son. The flush had faded 
from his face and left a somewhat gray pallor in its 
stead. It occurred to him that he had been lamentably 
imprudent. He stood and watched his mother, wonder- 
ing whether she was conscious of what she said. 

In a few minutes she looked at him again, and he 
saw, with a certain sensation of dismay, that her eyes 
were once more bright and steady. There was no doubt 
now as to her consciousness. She addressed him in 
quite her usual tone. 

“You will be so good, Anthony, as to write to Mr. 
Watson, and ask him to come and see me to-morrow 
morning. There is that little business about the farm 
to be arranged, and I want to see him first.” 

“Very well, mother.” 

“ Call nurse, please. I think I should like to sleep. 
Good night, Anthony. ” 

Sir Anthony passed a night of indescribable discom- 
fort. Of course, he did not write to Mr. Watson, the 
family solicitor. He had an uncomfortable impression 
that in spite of the reference to “ that little business 
about the farm,” his mother meant to alter the disposi- 
tion of her property. It would be excessively annoying 
to find that she had left her money away from him, or 
saddled it with some ridiculous condition. And that 


THE WEST WING. 


37 


was what she seemed likely to do, if she continued in 
her present state of mind. 

He fell into a troubled sleep at last, sitting in his 
great arm-chair ; and was awakened from his slumbers 
at daybreak by the nurse, who came to tell him, with a 
solemn awe-stricken countenance, that her services 
were no longer required in the sick-room, because “ my 
lady had passed away.” 

“^uite quiet like, in her sleep, without a struggle or 
a word,” affirmed the nurse. “ I never saw a lady make 
a more beautiful end,” 


CHAPTER IV. 


AFTER THE FUNERAL. 

Society was very much exercised on the question of 
Sir Anthony Kesterton’s mode of life, Although poor 
old Lady Kesterton had remained in ignorance of niuch 
that went on in her household during her long period 
of invalidism, several people in the imniediate vicinity 
knew, or fancied that they knew, a good deal. The 
appearance of Mrs. Paston at the house naturally excited 
comment ; and the story that she and her family gave 
out concerning her marriage with a cousin during her 
absence from home was not universally believed. 
Mary had been away (in London or elsewhere) for 
more than two years before she re^appeared at Kester- 
ton Park in the character of a young married woman 
with a little girl of two and a baby only a few weeks 
old, Thus she had been domiciled at the Park for 
more than a year before her presence was discovered 
by Lady Kesterton. 

Sir Anthony must have silenced the tongues of the 
women who were about his mother’s person ; for they 
never opened their Ups to her on the subject of Mary’s 
presence in the house, although they whispered about 
it a good deal, between themselves. And no other 
member of the household came into her presence. 

Then Lady Kesterton ’s visitors were few and far 
between. Her intimate friends — mostly stiff and 
38 


AFTER THE FUNERAL. 


39 


Starched old dowagers — lived at considerable distances 
from her, and did not hear the gossip of the Kesterton 
villagers. The clergyman of the parish mentioned the 
matter to Sir Anthony, but received such a snub in 
return that he, being a timid man, never ventured to 
allude to it again. Besides, as he was rather a High 
Churchman, his ministrations were not favored by Lady 
Kesterton, who preferred an Evangelical curate from 
a distance ; so he never came into confidential relations 
with her. All these circumstances contributed to the 
ignorance in which Lady Kesterton had been kept con- 
cerning the gossip of the neighborhood about Mary 
Paston. 

And now that the old lady was dead, everybody was 
wondering what Sir Anthony would do next. Would 
he change his mode of life? Would he re-open the 
house, take to himself a wife, and silence the voice of 
scandal by bidding Mary Paston depart to her father’s 
house? Or would he — as some of the gossips predicted 
— put the lodge-keeper’s pretty daughter in Lady Kes- 
terton ’s place, and introduce her to the county as his 
lawful wife? But Sir Anthony made no sign. 

He knew well enough that he was watched. Mr. 
Watson, the solicitor. Dr. Barclay, the doctor, the Rev- 
erend Septimus Green, vicar of the parish — all of these 
were acutely anxious to know what his next step would 
be. His man-servant watched him with lynx eyes ; the 
women in the house seemed to be always lying in wait 
for him ; and the gardeners and the village people 
regarded him with exceptional interest. To Anthony 
Kesterton this state of things began to be intolerably 
irritating. If there was any line of action which the 
people around him would think absolutely unlikely for 


40 


SIR ANTHONY’S SECRET. 


him to take, he declared to himself that he would take 
it. To be dictated to by public opinion as he had been 
by his mother was not a thing to which he would sub- 
mit. 

Lady Kesterton’s funeral Was decorously stately, and 
for a few hours the representatives of neighboring 
county families and a few distant relations thronged 
the library and dining-room at Kesterton Park, as 
they had thronged the little church and the green 
churchyard. Young Philip Winyates was observed 
amongst the mourners. And Lord Beaulieu honored 
the ceremony with his presence, and shook Sii* Anthony 
solemnly by the hand as he joined a sentence of condo- 
lence with a hope that the county might now see a little 
more of the master of Kesterton Park. 

The will was read with due observance after the 
funeral, and some of those who listened to it made cyni- 
cal comments in their own mind on Lady Kesterton’s 
Ignorance of facts. She had made exactly the kind of 
will that she had always been expected to make ; very 
just, very generous even, but somewhat dictatorial. 
Her will had, of course, nothing to do with the landed 
estate of the Kestertons ; it concerned her private for- 
tune only, and this was settled upon her son Anthony 
and his children. It was evident that Anthony was 
never to be allowed to squander it. His eldest son was 
to possess the bulk of it, but a certain number of thou- 
sands were to be divided between the other children, if 
there were any, of the house. And her jewels — not 
family jewels, but her own particular ornaments — were 
to go to his eldest daughter. 

Sir Anthony’s face was as expressionless as a mask 
during the reading of this document, and no one could 


AFTER THE FUNERAL. 


41 


say whether he was pleased or disappointed by it. 
Quite possibly he was a little disappointed. He was 
a man who liked — quite as much as his mother had 
done — to have his money affairs under his own control. 
And now, as it was remarked (aside) by the doctor, he 
could never have the delight of disinheriting an unduti- 
ful son; land and money were both strictly entailed. 
Sir Anthony was a man who might live to regret this 
deprivation. 

The guests departed before evening, Philip Win- 
yates being the only one who was invited to stay the 
night. By this time he was a tall, handsome fellow — 
still slightly delicate in appearance — and had lately 
gone up to Oxford, where he had taken a scholarship. 
Sir Anthony was an Oxford man, and seemed to feel 
the charm of Philip’s interest in his surrondings. It 
was only with Philip that Sir Anthony’s manner 
thawed. He had always liked the lad, and he saw in 
him more and more the promise of a congenial mind, 
Congenial, indeed, in intellectual things alone ; in ethi^ 
cal matters, in faith, morals, and religion, Philip and 
his cousin were at opposite poles. 

And as for Philip, or Phil Winyates (as he was gen^ 
erally called), he was honestly fond of Sir Anthony, 
and grateful for the many advantages his elder cousin’s 
generosity had procured for him. He took, as yet, quite 
a boyish view of his benefactor; bad heard nothing of 
the scandal that w^as reported, and would probably 
have hotly desired to knock down any man who reported 
it. And for the very sake of that ardent, innocent, 
outspoken friendship and admiration. Sir Anthony liked 
Phil, and, was ready to do a great, deal for him, Before 
they parted at night, he- made Philip promise to return 


42 


SIR ANTHONY’S SECRET. 


for the shooting, and gave him permission to bring a 
friend or two with him. 

Phil went back to Oxford next day feeling more than 
usually warm at heart. He had not many relations in 
the world, and few of them had been kind to him. He 
lavished a good deal of honest affection on the man 
that he was now leaving, and pitied him for the loneli- 
ness of his home. Why did not Anthony get married 
and enjoy himself? he wondered. 

The last thing that would have occurred to him as 
possible was the idea that the apparently kind, cour- 
teous, scholarly master of Kesterton Park was at that 
moment contemplating an act of cruelty and baseness 
with which Philip Winyates, in his young experience, 
would hardly have credited the vilest and most repul- 
sive of men. 

When Philip had gone, Anthony Kesterton spent 
half-an-hour in reading the Times and half an hour in 
smoking a cigar. At a quarter past eleven he came out 
of his library, mounted the stairs, and made his way to 
a certain upper room in the West Wing. It was the 
room in which Lady Kesterton had, to her great sur- 
prise, discovered Mary Paston and her children. 

He walked straight in and stood on the hearth-rug, 
without offering any greeting to the startled woman, 
who paused and looked at him with wide eyes and 
parted lips as he came in. She had begun to fold up 
a child’s pinafore, and she stood with it in her hand as 
if not knowing what she did. 

“Send the child away,” said Sir Anthony quietly. 
“ I want to speak to you. ” 

“Go and take tare of baby-brother, dear,” Mary 
urged gently as she bent over the child. “ Take dolly 


AFTER THE FUNERAL. 43 

with you, and keep them both fast asleep until I 
come.” 

The child nodded, with a preternaturally wise expres- 
sion on her infantile features ; then she disappeared into 
the next room and closed the door. Mary looked tim- 
idly at Sir Anthony. She had not spoken to him for a 
week. 

“ She is a very handsome woman, ” said he to himself, 
as he confronted her. “Just ripe: on the verge of over- 
ripeness. She will lose that pretty red-and- white in a 
year or two; and then, what will remain? Impossible 
to produce her anywhere; quite impossible. I made 
a mistake: query, an irreparable mistake? We shall 
soon see.” 

“You can sit down,” he said, still contemplating 
Mary coldly, and speaking in a tone of a master to one 
of his servants. “ I wish to ask you what took place 
between my mother and you when she came here, three 
days before she died. ” 

“ I told you she’d been,” said Mary, quivering like a 
leaf at the ice-cold tones of his voice. Her hands 
twisted themselves nervously in her apron, and her 
color came and went. She sat with her shoulders 
slightly raised and her head bent — the attitude of one 
who expects a blow : a decidedly irritating attitude to 
Sir Anthony. Perhaps because he knew that he was 
going to inflict one. 

“ Exactly: you told me so. But you did not tell me 
what passed between you. ” 

“She asked me questions,” said Mary, her face 
twitching. 

“ Questions — can you not keep your hands still when 
I speak to you? — what about?” 


44 


SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET. 


“ The children — and my husband — and all that.” 

“ And you told her about your husband on the China 
Seas, I suppose?” 

“ I did, at first. But then she ordered me out of the 
hotise. She said I wasn’t even to stay to pack my 
things, though I entreated of her to let me stop till you 
came home. But she said she wouldn’t. And then I — 

I told her the truth.” 

“ You did? The truth ! And then — what happened?” 

“She was took ill,” Mary faltered. “I had to call 
the girls to carry her back to her room. And that was 
all.” 

“ Enough, too, ” said Sir Anthony dryly. “ Do you 
hot see what you did? Virtually you killed my mother. 
But for that precious statement of yours, she might 
have been living yet. No doubt you wanted her out 
of the way, and would have done a good deal to pro- 
cure that end. But you are mistaken. You will not 
take her place, as you possibly imagined that you would 
do. I have made different plans. ” 

Mary listened to this speech in horrified silence ; but 
when it was concluded she put her apron to her face 
and burst out into childish, choking tears. 

“ I kill my lady!” she sobbed. “ Whoever heard such 
a tale before? Indeed I’d do my best to — to have her 
alive at this present moment, if you wanted her ; not 
that she spoke kind to me — nor — ” 

“ Have the goodness to leave off crying, and hold 
your tongue !” said Sir Anthony imperiously. The 
lines round his delicately cut mouth had hardened, his 
brows were dark, his face a little paler than usual. He 
hated “ scenes, ” and at that moment he felt that he 
hated Mary too. “ The fact remains,” he went on piti- 


AFTER THE FUNERAL. 


45 


lessly. “You were fool enough to say to her the one 
thing which she never could forgive nor forget. It 
struck her down like a blow — as you saw for yourself. 
If she had not died when she did, your action would 
very likely have made a beggar of me and of my chil- 
dren. Fortunately, she- — was not able to carry out her 
intentions. But you were a fool, for all that ; and you 
broke your promise — do you understand? A broken 
promise is a thing I always told you I would not for- 
give.” 

He looked at her cynically. She was still weeping 
and trying to sob out pleading, deprecating words. 

“Don’t be frightened,” he said at last. “I’m not 
going to turn you out of the house ; though I think you 
deserve it. But if you stay — are you listening? — you 
stay here as you are now. I will have no change. I 
will have no chattering fools saying that I have made 
an ass of myself. I will have no woman at the head of 
this house at all. Stay as you are — or go.” 

“But, Anthony — Anthony!” He made a gesture as 
though her use of his name displeased him; but in 
spite of that, she flung herself at his feet and tried to 
clasp his hands. “You promised me! You know you 
promised me ! When I let my good name go, you said 
that it would be only till your mother died. Oh, wont 
you right me now?” 

“Yes, I promised,” said Sir Anthony sarcastically, 
“ and why should I not break my promises like other 
people? You have broken yours to me. I do not 
choose to keep mine to you.” 

“For the children’s sake!” she pleaded. “Just to 
make it all right before people I I wont be a trouble 


46 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


to you: I’ll never want company, nor fine dresses, nor 
nothing. Just to be called your wife!” 

“Ah, yes, you would like to be ‘my lady,’ I have no 
doubt,” he answered cruelly. The words stung her 
into recoiling from him and rising to her feet. 

“ It’s not that I care about,” she said hoarsely. “ It’s 
only for them, and for my father and mother, that I 
care. God knows, \iyou do not know. And there’s jus- 
tice in the land. I can tell my father and everybody 
what you’ve been to me — what you are — and then — ” 

“And then,” said Sir Anthony, “you will pack, my 
good girl, and the children, too. I’ll turn you out, the 
three of you, and will never see any of you again. You 
would like that, would you not? And there would 
probably be no difficulty in finding somebody to supply 
your place.” 

She cried out at this, as if she were in bodily pain, 
and then sat rocking herself to and fro, her face hidden 
in her hands. 

“ I make you a fair offer,” said Sir Anthony, implac- 
ably. “ You can stay here, with every comfort and 
luxury for yourself and the children, if you will. There 
is no reason to spare expense now. You may have 
anything you like. But I will have no queening over 
the house, no title, no acknowledgment. You are Mrs. 
Paston still. You deserve it for your treachery to me. 
And if you commit that treachery again — if you say 
one word more than I authorize you to say — your 
chances are ended; out you go. So you may choose.” 

If she had been a high-minded woman, she might 
have chosen to go — and to be vindicated in the eyes of 
the world. But poor Mary was weak and loving and 


AFTER THE FUNERAL. 


47 


afraid. So she sobbed out a declaration of her readi- 
ness to do all that Sir Anthony wished, and was com- 
forted when he smiled upon her and kissed her with an 
effiision that he had not shown for many weary months. 
He even went into the next room with her and looked 
at the sleeping boy — a perfect cherub for beauty, and 
very much like Mary. Little Elfrida was sitting, quiet 
as a mouse, beside his cot, with her doll upon her lap. 
Emboldened by his success with Mary, Sir Anthony 
patted her cheek, and asked her for a kiss. 

“No; I don’t like you,” said Miss Elfrida. “You 
make mammy cry. ” 

And Sir Anthony did not blush, as he well might 
have done. 


CHAPTER V. 


THE LAST MESSAGE. 

Sir Anthony disappointed the County once again. 
He made no changes in his manner of living, and was 
more seldom seen in society than ever. Occasionally 
he went away — to London, it was rumored, or, more 
vaguely still, to “the Continent,” but he was never ab- 
sent for long. As a general rule, he lived immured 
within the walls of his study. And about a year after 
Lady Kesterton’s death, he brought out a dainty vol- 
ume of versions from the later Latin poets — very musi- 
cal, very eloquent, and very lax in sentiment. This 
little book brought him considerable renown among 
scholars ; and from time to time the literary world was 
enlightened by paragraphs in the Athenceuni as to the 
nature' of the next work on which Sir Anthony Kester- 
ton was supposed to be engaged. But for some time 
he did not publish anything more. He read a great 
deal, and made voluminous notes on what he read, but 
without any particular result. He led a life which 
seemed of absolutely no value to anybody in the world. 

But now and then he visited the West Wing, and saw 
the woman and children whose wrongs he had refused 
to right. When he was in a good-humor he caressed 
her, and gave bonbons to the little ones ; when he was 
in an ill-humor, as happened more frequently, he 
amused himself by making her cry with his bitter 
speeches and frightening the children with sour looks 

48 


THE LAST MESSAGE. 


49 


and words. The children were terrified of him, in 
spite of his occasional gifts, but their mother loved him 
still, with the pathetic faithfulness of some women 
toward the man that has wronged them most. 

Nearly three years had passed since Lady Kester- 
ton’s death before Mary Derrick again referred to the 
subject of her position in Sir Anthony’s house. The 
reticence showed his power over her. She was afraid 
of provoking his wrath. But at last — one sunny Octo- 
ber evening — the matter came up again. 

Sir Anthony was sitting beside a bright little fire in 
Mary’s “parlor,” as she always called her room. 

The children had escaped into the next room to play. 
Mary occupied a low high-backed chair opposite Sir 
Anthony’s, and glanced at him now and then in a 
thoughtful, anxious way. The glances secretly annoyed 
him, and caused him to speak at last in an unusually 
cold tone. 

“ I am going abroad next week,” he said. 

Mary started. “ For long?” she asked timidly. 

“Certainly for the winter. Perhaps for a longer 
time. I am a little tired of England. ” 

She caught her breath. “ Will you — couldn’t you — 
take me with you?” she murmured. 

“Take you with me!” repeated Sir Anthony, staring 
at her as though he thought her a mad- woman. “ What 
are you dreaming of? What upon earth should I take 
you abroad with me for?” 

She was silent for a minute or two, and then he 
heard a slight choked sob, which angered him. He did 
not always dislike the sight of tears — they sometimes 
afforded him a malicious satisfaction — but he was not 
that evening in the mood to watch Mary cry. 

4 


50 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ If you are going to weep I will go downstairs, ” he 
said coolly. “ If I stay, have the goodness to look 
pleasant.” 

“ It is- only,” she said, trying to choke back her sobs, 
“ that if you go — for so long — I — perhaps I might not 
see you again.” 

“What nonsense is this? May I ask where you 
intend to go?” 

“To Heaven, I hope,” said Mary, with the greatest 
simplicity. Then she wiped her eyes, sighed, and sat 
up with her hands folded over her handkerchief in her 
lap. Sir Anthony narrowed his eyes until the pupils 
were hardly visible between the lids, and scrutinized 
her from head to foot. She had her back to the light, 
and he could not see her distinctly, but the sunset glow 
touched her hair and made it shine like an aureole of 
red fire. 

“Sit down,” he said peremptorily. “Yes — so, with 
your face more to the light. H’m! You look very 
well. May I ask what makes you talk so confidently of 
your speedy departure to — h’m! — another world?” 

“I may look well,” said Mary stubbornly, “but I 
don’t feel well, and I aint well. Look at me: look at 
my wrists 1 I used to have some flesh upon me once. 
Look at my cheek-bones, and my neck! I’m falling 
away to nothing, and you say that I look well. ” 

“You have not grown coarser and redder, as I 
expected you -to do, certainly,” answered Sir Anthony, 
with a pleasant air of saying something agreeable. 
“ On the whole, you have put on a distinguished look, 
Mary : you would carry a velvet dress very well now, 
having lost your milkmaid bloom. You are handsomer 
than ever, my dear; be content with that.” 


THE LAST MESSAGE. 


51 


“ Content! I have been content too long,” she cried. 
“ I may live contented all my life, and lie contented in 
my grave.” 

“Well, I trust so, when that time comes,” said Sir 
Anthony provokingly. “We don’t want you to walk^ 
Mary, after you are dead.” 

“ I would if I could, ” said Mary, now crying again, 
“ if it was only to protect those poor children. If you’d 
but give me word that you wouldn’t turn ’em out after 
I was gone — ” 

“ Enough of this, Mary; it becomes Wearisome, You 
are perfectly well, but a little fanciful ; you shall see 
the doctor to-morrow. If I do go away it will be only 
for a few months. Make yourself easy; I’m not going 
to run away. ” 

But Mary was possessed with one idea — a fixed idea, 
over which she brooded night and day. “ If you go 
you wont find me here when you come back. Oh, 
Anthony, wont you do me justice before the world 
before I die?” 

“ You talk folly,” he said coldly; and his face became 
suddenly hard and stern. “ I shall not alter my way of 
life for such as you. ” 

“I am the mother of your children,’* she pleaded, 
“ They have rights in the world ; and so have I. It is 
a very little thing I want. Just let people know that 
I—” 

“ I shall let people know nothing about you,” he said, 
rising in a white heat of fury, “ except what I choose. 
Once for all, I will have no more of this. If you talk 
rubbish of this kind, I will not come near you at all. 
I made my bargain with you after my mother died; 
stay as you are, or leave the house altogether. Do you 


52 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

want to go out into the world to beg bread for yourself 
and your brats?” 

As ill-luck would have it, one of the children came 
racing into the room at that moment. It was the boy 
— a beautiful little fellow, with his mother’s golden hair 
and big blue eyes. Mary drew him toward her for 
a moment, and — poor, foolish, passionate creature! — 
pushed him toward Sir Anthony. 

“ Your own child!” she cried. “Your son and heir! 
Him that will be master of the house one day, when 
you’re beneath the sod! How dare you say that I shall 
ever have to beg bread for him. Sir Anthony Kesterton? 
You are false and cruel enough, but you dare not deny 
your own child!’' 

Sir Anthony had turned white to the lips. This out- 
burst from the usually silent and shrinking Mary 
enraged as well as surprised him. But he knew the 
way to punish her. He did not strike women ; but he 
could strike a boy. He lifted his hand and deliberately 
struck the boy upon the cheek. 

The little fellow was full of somewhat unruly spirit. 
Although the blow was a hard one he did not cry out. 
He squared his tiny fists and struck back again with all 
his might. And then Sir Anthony, unreasonably irri- 
tated by this baby defiance, took him by the shoulders 
and shook him violently, then cast him roughly and 
suddenly away — so roughly and suddenly that the child 
fell to the ground, striking himself against a heavy 
piece of furniture in its descent. Mary screamed aloud, 
and, her own private troubles for the moment forgot- 
ten, ran to pick him up. The little girl appeared in 
the doorway, her large questioning eyes fixed first upon 
Sir Anthony and then on her brother. And Sir 


THE LAST MESSAGE. 53 

Anthony, with a feeling of disgust rather than of 
shame, strode sullenly out of the room. 

Mary picked up the boy and caressed him. He did 
not seem to be much hurt, only a little stunned for a 
minute or two. He was sick almost immediately after- 
ward ; but his mother, being ignorant of such matters, 
did not know that this was in any way an important 
symptom. She confined her attention chiefly to the 
bruise on his face, and was not surprised by his crying 
in a fretful way for a long time before he fell asleep. 
His uneasiness occupied her mind for the rest of the 
evening, and she had scarcely time to think about Sir 
Anthony’s wrath or the threats that he had uttered. 
Her little girl, however, asked a question or two which 
recalled them to her mind. 

“ Has Harry been naughty?” she said. 

“Naughty? No, the precious! he’s never naughty, ” 
said the fond mother, kissing and rocking the boy. 

“Then why was the gentleman angry?” The child 
always spoke of Sir Anthony as “the gentleman.” 
“ He struck Harry, and then pushed him down.” 

“ He was angry with me, my dear, that’s what it 
was,” said Mary mournfully. “ He can turn us all out 
of the house if he pleases. He’s the master.” 

“ Why should he strike Harry if he’s angry with you, 
mammy?” questioned Elfrida. But her mother began 
to cry, and no further answers could be obtained. Per- 
haps because her curiosity was unsatisfied, the scene 
remained in the little maiden’s mind, never to be 
forgotten. 

Sir Anthony’s departure was considerably hastened 
by this incident. He left the house next morning with- 
out troubling himself to see Mary before he went. 


54 


SIR Anthony's secret. 


Notwithstanding his sneers at her “fancifulness,” 
Mary was certainly far from strong. She had, as she 
said, fallen away very greatly: her shoulders looked 
sharp and ridge-like, her chest had fallen in, her tem- 
ples and cheeks were hollow. Her great blue eyes 
were bright with a strange translucence in the whites, 
such as we notice sometimes in fine porcelain ; a patch 
of hot red color showed itself upon her thin cheeks. 
She was troubled with a cough and a shortness of 
breath, which made her move very slowly ; and she 
grew so weak that she was quite unable to lift even a 
light weight, or to attend, as she had hitherto done, to 
the toilet of her children. And she had scant help from 
the servants of the house, of whom very few were left 
behind. The French cook and Lady Kesterton’s maids 
had gone; the valet was with his master. The grim 
house-maid, one kitchen-maid and a boy alone remained 
behind, and they considered themselves injured by hav- 
ing to wait upon Mary Paston, who had originally been 
no better than themselves, and was now far worse. 
The little kitchen-maid, Sally, was more good-natured 
than Eliza, her Superior ; and when she found that 
Mary really was ill, she did not grumble at having to 
do a great deal which the poor woman had always done 
for herself before. For although Mary had been for- 
bidden to wash and scrub and scour, she had always 
performed many of the lighter duties of a household 
for herself in those three rooms which constituted her 
home in Kesterton Park; and it was hard to her to 
leave them to anybody else to do. Besides, Henry was 
now almost always ailing ; he, too, grew pale and thin, 
and seemed disinclined to move about Mary was not 
clever ; she had no suspicion that anything was wrong 


THE LAST MESSAGE. 


55 


with him ; but she fretted restlessly, as sick people will 
sometimes do, for a change ; and was quite convinced 
that if they could get away from Kesterton she and 
Henry would both be well. 

It was to Elfrida that she moaned and complained. 
The little girl was of unusual intelligence. It seemed 
sometimes as if she possessed the tact and discernment 
of a woman. She soon became expert in managing her 
little brother: in dressing and undressing him, amusing 
him and putting him to sleep ; and she did as much for 
her mother’s comfort as for her brother’s. After a 
time Mary was entirely guided and managed by her 
little daughter, who waited upon her night and day. 
Even the servants, heedless and rather hard-hearted as 
they were, were touched by the sight of her helpfulness 
and activity. “That there Elfie,” Sally said, “is just 
like a reg’lar nurse, small as she is. I’d offer to sit up 
with Mrs. Paston a bit if it was any good, but there — 
she nearly snapped my head off when I mentioned it. 
‘ I can get mother anything she wants, ’ says she. But 
there aint many children of her age as would get up 
half-a-dozen times in the night for their mother’s 
medicine and beef-tea She’s worth her weight in 
gold, that little creature.” And, fortified by these 
praises of the child, she left Elfrida with a good con- 
science. 

The doctor came, of course, to see Mary Paston, but 
after a few visits from him she petulantly refused to see 
him. “ He does me no good,” she complained to El- 
frida. “ He only torments me. We’ll go on with the 
medicine and the jelly and all that, my dear, but the 
doctor can’t do me no good. 

And. Elfrida., wise little woman as she was, did not 


56 


SIR ANTHONY S SECRET. 


know how important it might be to combat her mother’s 
resolution. 

Sir Anthony did not write to Mary. Money for her 
wants was furnished through Mr. Watson, who came 
once a month to pay into her hands a certain sum. 
Once or twice she summoned up courage to ask where 
Sir Anthony was travelling just then. Once it was in 
“Asia Minor,” at another time “in Egypt.” When he 
had gone, Mary made her little girl bring an atlas to 
her, and tried to find the names upon the map. In this 
search, Elfie could not help her, for though Elfie knew 
how to read by this time, she had not learnt any 
geography. And as Mary’s own knowledge was scanty, 
she was only successful in finding “ Asia” in large let- 
ters ; and Asia offered a wide field for speculation to 
her untravelled mind. 

But the progress of her malady was slow. More than 
eighteen months had gone by since Sir Anthony’s de- 
parture when Mary realized that the time was nearly 
come for her to go. 

“ I can’t get up, Elfie. I can’t get up, my dear,” she 
moaned, one soft spring day. “ The heat, it do tire me 
so; and I can rest very well in bed. Henry’s more 
comfortable in bed, too, I think, and he can rest here, 
side o’ me. And you come and sit by your poor 
mammy, for you won’t have her long.” 

“ Oh, yes, mammy, I shall ; you’ll get better now 
that spring ’s here,” said the child. “ Look how pretty 
it is in the garden!” 

“ Pretty — eh, it’s pretty; but I shant be here long to 
see it. I’m going to die, Elfie.” 

The child burst into tears ; not because she attached 
much meaning to the idea of dying, but because her 


THE LAST MESSAGE. 


57 


mother looked at her with such solemn eyes, so that 
she felt afraid. 

“Don’t cry,” said Mary, almost fretfully. “ It does 
no good, and you’ll make baby cry too, if you don’t take 
care. And I’ve something to say to you while m)’- 
cough’s a bit better and I can talk.” 

Elfrida obediently dried her tears and listened. “I 
always knew that I shouldn’t see him again,” the dying 
woman murmured. “ I told him so, but he wouldn’t 
believe it. Sir Anthony, Elfie — the gentleman, you 
know — ” 

“The one that used to scold you?” inquired the 
child. 

“ You are not to say that. You are a naughty girl,” 
said the mother irritably. “ He was always good and 
kind; remember that. And when he comes back to 
Kesterton, you’re to give him a message from me.” 

“A message?” said Elfrida. She trembled at the 
thought, but her mother must be obeyed. 

“Yes, a message. I shall be in the churchyard by 
then, and there’s nobody to leave a message with but 
you. I sent down to my mother, but she wouldn’t come 
a-near me. And I can’t leave it to the servants. And 
you’re so young and all — oh deary dear! What shall 
I do?” 

“ I’ll remember the message; I’ll give it to the gen- 
tleman, mammy,” said Elfrida. “Indeed I will. I 
wont forget.” 

“You’re sure you wont?” said the mother eagerly. 
There was something pitiful in the trust which she, a 
grown woman, reposed in that slight, small child. 

“ You’ll think on it night and day until you’ve given it? 
You promise me that?” 


58 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“Yes, mammy, I promise.” 

“Well, then, it’s just this,” said Mary. “You’re to 
say to him that I forgave him and wished him well, 
and that I hoped he’d be good to my children. That’s 
all. Only you be sure to tell him what I said. Say it 
over, so that I may see you’ve got it right. ” 

Elfie repeated the message two or three times, and 
Mary was satisfied. “ Then there’s Henry, ” the mother 
went on, after a little pause, chiefly occupied by cough- 
ing. “I sometimes think he’s something the matter 
with him. His back seems to hurt him at times, and 
he cries such a lot. But maybe he’ll grow out o’ that. 
Elfrida, will you promise me always to take care of 
your brother?” 

“ Oh, yes, mammy. And when he’s grown up he can 
take care of me.” 

“Ah, yes, when he’s grown up. But he’s younger 
than you, and not so strong. But you’ll look after him, 
lovey? You’ll not forget. “ You’ll take care of him if 
he’s weakly, and look after him, just as I should do, if 
I was here?” 

“Yes, mammy, indeed I will,” cried Elfrida ear- 
nestly. 

“You’re a good girl, Elfie. You’ll have your reward 
some day,” said Mary faintly. “And Providence’ll 
look after you, I have no doubt. You be a good girl 
and take care of Henry, bless his little heart ! We’ll all 
be together again — some day— some day — ” 

Her voice died away into a murmur, and for a time 
she seemed to slumber. Elfie sat very still, trying not 
to disturb her mother. But after a time a strange 
shiver and convulsion passed through the wasted frame 


THE LAST MESSAGE. 


59 


upon the bed, and when the child looked again there 
was a different look, a gray, ghastly look, upon the 
well-known face. Moved by some dreadful fear — she 
scarcely knew of what— she ran for help. But help was 
of no avail. Mary Paston’s soul had passed away, and 
her children were henceforth rnotherless. 


CHAPTER VI. 


ELFRIDA. 

Philip Winyates had distinguished himself at Ox- 
ford, and made many friends. He had no home of his 
own, but he was seldom at a loss for places in which to 
spend his vacations. He was a popular young fellow, 
and he always seemed to have plenty of money to spend ; 
moreover, it was rumored that if Sir Anthony Kester- 
ton did not marry he was the next heir. For these rea- 
sons he was welcome in many houses at Christmas, 
Easter, for later in the year when the shooting was 
going on ; and as Sir Anthony when in England did not 
invite him often to Kesterton, and had now been abroad 
for about two years, Philip had fallen out of the habit 
of spending his time at the park. 

Nevertheless, he knew that the place was always 
open to him if he chose to go to it. This had been 
impressed upon his mind by Sir Anthony. “ You can 
treat it as your own home,” he had said to Philip in his 
cool, indifferent way. “If you want to read quietly 
anywhere you can run down at any time. Make the ser- 
vants wait on you, and send for anything you want. You 
are quite welcome. ” 

As it happened, Philip had never availed himself of 
this permission of Sir Anthony’s to use the Park as if it 
were his own. He had been of too sociable and light- 
hearted a disposition to shut himself up with his books 

6o 


ELFRIDA. 


6l 


in that gloomy old house for even a week’s loneliness. 
But there was a fibre of melancholy in his own nature, 
which, although kept in abeyance for years by the 
healthy, vigorous life of school and college, yet would 
have its way when circumstances brought it to the front. 

It is not necessary to enter into all the details of the 
time when Philip Winyates thought that his heart was 
broken, his life laid bare for ever, because a girl had 
jilted him. She was an exceedingly pretty girl, who 
belonged to a “ smart ” London set ; and she was not in 
the least suitable to poor Phil. She never intended to 
marry him, and at last she told him so. But it was 
while he was still smarting and miserable after their 
separation that it occurred to him to go down to Kester- 
ton Park and take up his abode there for a time. 

He was sullen and out of sorts as he made his appear- 
ance at the great house in the mellow dusk of an August 
evening. He had thrown up his engagements — the 
visits that he had planned, the great “ shoots ” that he 
had fondly anticipated, the long walks and rides and 
drives with his beloved. She was going to be married 
to Lord Somebody — he had forgotten the name; and 
she had never cared for him at all. She had let him 
hold her hand, and even kiss her in the conservatory 
when the lights were low, but she had been quite ready 
to throw him over when a Marquis made his appearance 
on the scene, and her mother told her to accept him. 
That was what drove Philip out into “the wilds,” as he 
mentally phrased it to himself. He was sick of the 
frivolity, the heartlessness, the falsity of modern life — 
in other words,’ of Beatrice Larose. He would seclude 
himself at Kesterton, and forget, if he could, that such 
a world — that such a woman — continued to exist. 


62 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


He had telegraphed to say that he was coming, and he 
was hardly prepared, therefore, to find that the servants 
looked somewhat perplexed and troubled by his arrival. 
The front door was barred ; the library closely shut- 
tered. 

“ Did you not see my telegram?” he asked the house- 
maid, rather sharply. 

“ No, sir. Was it addressed to Mrs. Paston, sir, or — ” 
“To Mrs. Paston, the housekeeper. I was told to 
telegraph to her if I wanted to come down, ” 

“ Mrs. Paston died last June, sir, and I dare say your 
telegraph went to her people, the Derricks, in the vil- 
lage. There’s no housekeeper now, sir — at least only 
me and the kitchen-maid; but we’ll do our best to make 
you as comfortable as we can.” 

“ Very well, I shant want much,” said Philip vaguely. 
This want of welcome and preparedness gave him a 
fresh chill. Everything went wrong in his small world, 
it seemed. He was almost inclined to go away and 
sleep at the village inn; but even the sour-visaged 
Eliza showed herself outraged by the idea, 

“ Master ’d never forgive us, sir. If you don’t mind 
waiting a few minutes and taking things as you find 
’em, I’m sure we’ll do our best,” she said, in so ag- 
grieved a tone that Mr. Winyates thought it easier to 
yield to her persuasion than to run away. 

So he made himself as comfortable as he could in the 
big, undusted library, and Eliza served him a hot supper 
in the morning-room and made ready one of the guest- 
chambers, where he slept the sleep of the just in spite 
of all his sorrows, and awoke next morning with a feel- 
ing of rest and calm to which he had been long unac- 
customed. The house was very silent, and through the 


£LFRIDA. 


63 


open window there came only the sound of swaying 
branches and waking birds. He rose and spent a great 
part of the day out of doors, roaming over the hills and 
moors that stretched themselves away to the north and 
west, without considering very much where he was 
going, and making his way back to the Park only when 
the evening shadows began to fall. On the next day 
he did much the same thing; but on the third day it 
rained, and he felt that the library was more attractive 
than the dripping scene without. He read, wrote let- 
ters, smoked and meditated, until four or five in the 
afternoon ; then, after a cup of rather smoky tea, he took 
to strolling about the passages. And, like Lady Kes- 
terton, five years before, he found something for which 
he was not prepared. 

The house seemed so empty and desolate, so given 
over to cobwebs and decay, that Philip shruged 
his shoulders with a passing thought of the luxurious 
country mansions where he might have been at that 
moment, had he chosen, and wondered whether Anthony 
knew how the poor old place was going to pieces. He 
felt half disposed to write and tell him even at the risk 
of bringing the much-soured Eliza into disgrace. He 
went into the picture-gallery and looked with languid 
interest at the rather shabby portrait-array of Kester- 
tons of the olden time. There was only one picture 
which he liked. It represented a lady of George the 
Third’s time, with white fichu and slightly powdered 
dark hair piled upon her head, but allowing a few stray 
curls to fall upon the whiteness of her neck. The feat- 
ures were of singular delicacy and finished modelling; 
the eyes were a pure, clear gray, with very long black 
lashes. The lady’s name was given in a corner of the 


64 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


caavas; Philip stooped and read it— “ Elfrida Kester- 
ton, 1785.” 

“ Ah, yes, I remember, the Earl’s daughter, Anthony’s 
great grandmother,” Philip said to himself. “Died 
young, I believe. And Anthony is like her in features, 
especially — not expression. She was a very handsome 
young woman — with a temper, if I remember aright, — 
and came to a sad end. She has left her great-grand- 
son several legacies — eyes and temper, to wit, and a 
knack of taking his own way, if all one hears be 
true.” 

He passed out of the picture gallery into a long cor- 
ridor ; he hardly knew where he was, for it was a long 
time since he had trodden this part of the house. A 
flight of stairs before him led to a glass door, from 
which, he now remembered, he could get into the gar- 
den, and, hailing the notion of a breath of fresh air he 
descended the stairs with considerable alacrity. On 
the last step but one he paused. Blinded by the sun- 
light, he had nearly stumbled over some one, or some- 
thing, on the lowest step. He exclaimed, and then he 
looked again. It was a little girl. 

She was evidently crying, with her elbows on her 
knees and her face half hidden in a wet rag of a hand- 
kerchief. That was probably why she had not heard 
his footstep on the stairs. She wore a very shabby 
black frock, and her short, dark hair was rough and 
dishevelled. Philip stopped and looked at the appari- 
tion in surprise. He supposed that the child belonged 
to the village — was probably some relation of the ser- 
vants — and wondered what she was doing on the stairs. 
A piteous little sob again assailed his ear. 

“What are you crying for, my child?” he asked, lean- 


ELFRIDA. 65 

ing against the wall and looking at her with kindly 
curiosity. 

She took her handkerchief away from her tear-bedab- 
bled face, and stared at him in return with her big, 
long-lashed, gray eyes. He had a sudden consciousness 
that he had seen those eyes before — but where? 

“You’re Mr. Winyates, you’re Sir Anthony’s cousin, 
aren’t you?” she said quickly. Her accent was very 
much purer than he would have expected, and her deli- 
cate, refined little face had not the aspect of a cottager’s 
child. 

“ Yes, ” he said, “ I am Sir Anthony’s cousin ; and who 
may you be?” 

She looked at him gravely out of her pensive eyes. 

“I’m Elfrida — Elfrida Paston,” she replied. 

Elfrida! The name gave him a shock. For this 
Elfrida, child though she was, resembled the Elfrida of 
the picture-gallery, line by line, feature by feature, as 
if she were a reproduction in miniature of the old-time 
Lady Kesterton. The eyes of vSir Anthony’s ancestress 
looked at him out of the face of this unknown little 
being in a shabby frock who was crying on the stairs. 

Then he recovered himself, and remembered certain 
facts that helped him out of his bewilderment. Paston : 
that was the name of Anthony’s late housekeeper. This 
child must be some relation of hers. Probably her con- 
nection with the Park had caused her parents to call her 
after one of the Kestertons. And likenesses — they were 
fleeting, untrustworthy things ; and gray eyes with long 
black lashes were not so uncommon, after all. “Well, 
and what are you doing here?” he asked in a friendly 
tone; he could not help being friendly with all chil- 
dren, and children generally adored him in consequence. 

5 


66 


SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET. 


“ I came here — to cry,” said Elfrida. 

“ Indeed ! This is a funny place to come to for that 
purpose, isn’t it?” 

“Oh, no; I always come here to cry, when I don’t 
want anybody to see me? It is so easy, you know. I 
can just slip out at the door up there”— and she pointed 
up the stairs— “ and sit here till I’ve done crying. No- 
body ever comes this way. And I don’t like to cry up 
there because of Henry. ” 

“Well, but — why don’t you go home if you want to 
cry?” 

“This is my home,” she said, looking at him seri- 
ously. “We live here— Henry and me.” 

“Whom do you belong to, then? Who takes care of 
you?” 

“We don’t belong to anybody. I take care of Henry; 
nobody takes care of me. I used to take care of 
mammy when — when she — was alive. ” 

“You — were you Mrs. Paston’s children?” said Philip 
wonderingly. 

Elfrida nodded. “ But she died in the summer. 
And now I’ve got to take care of Henry all by myself.” 
The great tears again filled her eyes and began to fall 
over her delicate pale cheeks. 

“Are you crying, then, because you have to take 
care of him?” said Philip, interested and puzzled almost 
in spite of himself. 

“ Oh, no — only because — pr’aps I don’t take care of 
him prop’ ly, you know.” Elfrida could not yet pro- 
nounce all her words very distinctly. “ I. tried to take 
care of mammy, but she — she — died ; and I try to take 
care of Henry, too — but — ” She retired behind her 


ELFRIDA. 67 

handkerchief again, with a little sniff which went to 
Philip’s heart. 

“ Why, my poor child, is Henry ill?” he asked. 

“I’m ’fraid he is,” sobbed Elfrida. Her little heart 
was evidently very full, and at the sound of his kind 
voice it overflowed altogether. “He wont eat his din- 
ner, and he’s always crying and wanting to lie down, 
and he’s got quite thin and pale — ” 

“ But why don’t the servants look after him? Why 
do you still live here? Haven’t you relations in the 
village?” 

Elfrida dried her eyes and looked up in wonder. 
“ Mammy’s mother lives in the village,” she said, “but 
she doesn’t like us, and we don’t like her. We’ve 
always lived here; we shouldn’t like to live with 
mammy’s mother.” 

“I suppose not,” Philip thought to himself, with a 
vague notion of the comfortable life in the kitchen and 
scullery, as pets of the servants, which these children 
probably led. He had not yet grasped their true posi- 
tion in the household in the least. “ Where is Henry?” 
he asked. “ In bed?” 

“ No, he’s in our room. Will you come and see him?” 
said the child, instantly brightening. And springing 
up, she began to mount the stairs at once. “ It’s up 
here,” she said. Philip followed at once. 

This room was very evidently not a servant’s room. 
It was more like a very superior nursery, or even a 
lady’s morning-room. The furniture was old-fashioned 
and covered with chintz, but still handsome and good: 
there were book-shelves and water-color sketches on the 
walls, and a rather faded Turkey carpet on the floor, 


68 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


Various articles that had once belonged to poor Mary 
Paston were still displayed in prominent positions: 
there was a handsome work-basket and an album, and 
a few costly ornaments on the mantel-piece. Inter- 
mixed with these things were children’s toys and arti- 
cles of apparel. 

But what chiefly interested Philip was the appearance 
of the child — a boy of about six years old — who was 
lying flat on the broad comfortable-looking couch drawn 
up to one of the windows. His eyes were closed, and 
he seemed to be asleep. His face was pale, and his 
brows were slightly contracted, as if from pain or ill- 
ness; but in spite of its pallor it was a face of such 
wonderful beauty, as well as of such exceeding pathos, 
that Philip Winyates stood amazed. He was simply 
dressed in a little holland blouse, and he had a wooden 
horse in his tiny waxen hand. 

“That’s Henry,” whispered Elfrida. “Don’t you 
think he looks ill?” 

“Well he doesn’t look very bright, certainly,” said 
Philip, almost forgetting, as he spoke, that she was 
only a child of eight years old. “ You should send for 
the doctor.” 

“ He’s left off coming, now that mammy’s gone. And 
Eliza says it’s no use troubling about him; he’s taken 
for death, like mammy.” 

“Oh, nonsense! We’ll get the doctor to look at him 
to-morrow,” said Philip, cheerfull}^, “and he’ll soon 
put him to rights. ” 

The boy opened his eyes at that moment ; great blue 
eyes that looked too innocent and infantile to be so 
strangely weary, and to have such black shadows under- 
neath them. He did not seem to be shy or afraid of 


ELFRIDA. 


69 

visitors ; he smiled and conversed with Philip about his 
horse, but when Elfrida tried to induce him to move he 
screamed at once, and would not be pacified ; and when 
adjured by her in a most maternal way to be good, 
sobbed out the words, ^ 

“ I am good, only my back hurts me so !” 

Philip stayed with the pair until his dinner was 
ready, and then took the first opportunity of questioning 
Eliza about them. But Eliza proved impenetrable. 
^‘She didn’t know why they stayed; but Mr. Watson, 
the lawyer-gentleman, knew all about it. When Mrs. 
Paston died, he had come over and said that the chil- 
dren was to stay on till he heard from the master about 
them. She had no authority to do anything; but of 
course if the little boy was really ill — ” 

“ Oh, I’ll send a note to the doctor myself,” said Phil, 
“and take the responsibility. Mrs. Paston — I don’t 
know that I remember her; she came after Mrs. Bates, 
I understand. A widow, I suppose?” 

The remark was hardly interrogative, and therefore 
Eliza was free to toss her head and withdraw from the 
room, feeling, as she afterward expressed it, that Mr. 
Winyates was really very “ presumpshus ” in his manner. 
But innocent Phil was quite unconscious of having 
given offence, although he afterward remembered the 
odd look that the woman cast at him when he spoke 
about the children. 

There was something of the same look apparent in 
the face of the doctor, too, when that gentleman arrived 
in answer to Philip’s note. “ Al^ yes, the two Paston 
children,” he said; “I thought they were all right. 
No? Well, I’ll have a look at the boy — I’ve not seen 
him very recently. ” 


70 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


It was fully half an hour before Dr. Barclay came 
down again, and then he looked disturbed. “I’m 
afraid this is a bad business,” he began ; “ the poor little 
chap’s been neglected, and it seems to have been a 
nasty tumble. It’s his spine.' I have been trying to get 
that little Elf — she’s that by name and nature — to tell 
me how it was done, but she wont say. I expect she 
had something to do with it herself. I wonder whether 
you could get it out of her!” 

“I? I’ve only seen her once. ” 

“ But she’s taken a great fancy to you, all the same. 
You might run up, Phil, and ask the young ^monkey 
what she knows about it.” And this, after a little per- 
suasion, Philip agreed to do. 

He had naturally a winning way with children ; and 
it was no wonder that he won the little girl’s confidence 
at last, although the set of her firm little mouth and the 
curve of her brows had already shown him that she 
had a will of her own. But when he urged upon her 
that her silence might possibly endanger Henry’s 
chance of a cure, since the doctor wished to know ex- 
actly how and when the mischief had been done, her 
fortitude gave way. 

“I’ll tell you — I’ll tell you— if it’ll do Henry any 
good,” she cried, “though mammy made me promise 
that I wouldn’t tell. It was the gentleman that struck 
him before he went away. Sir Anthony, I mean. He 
was angry with mother, and so he struck baby — 
mammy said so. And Henry fell down and hurt him- 
self, and he’s never been well since — and I never, never 
will forgive Sir Anthony!” 

And Elfrida ended with a burst of convulsive sobs. 


CHAPTER VII. 


CHRISTMAS EVE. 

It was close upon Christmas time when Sir Anthony 
came home. Philip had written him a warm, impul- 
sive letter concerning the “ waifs and strays ” who had 
been left, at hap-hazard as it seemed, in his house ; but 
to this epistle his cousin had not replied. The effect 
of it was seen, perhaps, in a visit paid by Mr. Watson 
and Dr. Barclay in company to little Henry, and in the 
installation of a respectable-looking nurse who was 
used to cases of this special complaint. This woman, 
Mrs. Terry by name, speedily constituted herself chief 
authority of both the children and queen of the rooms 
in the West Wing whieh had been appropriated to 
Mary’s use. She was a motherly person, with a kind 
heart, and the children «:oon looked the better for her 
superintendence. 

At first, however, she gave great offence to the ser- 
vants. For one thing, she spoke scrupulously of the 
children as “ Miss Elfrida ” and “ Master Henry ” — a 
form of speech which Eliza particularly resented. But 
when she began to grumble and to recount the reasons 
for grumbling, Mrs.' Terry cut her short. 

“ I’ve got my orders,” she said, “ and one of them was 
that I was not to listen to gossip, but to do my best for 
the dear children, as there was no knowing what might 
not happen to them some time or other. ” 


72 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


But from whom she took her orders, or what was 
likely to happen to the children, Mrs. Terry stoutly 
refused to tell. 

Sir Anthony arrived in London on the twenty-second 
of December, and telegraphed at once to Philip, asking 
him if he could spend Christmas at Kesterton. 

Philip telegraphed back his acceptance of the invita- 
tion, and Sir Anthony at once started for SouthshirOj 
leaving his cousin at liberty to come on the following 
day, or on Christmas Eve itself, as he pleased. He 
had a reason for not travelling down with Philip ; there 
were two or three pieces of business he wanted to trans- 
act before Philip came. 

He took the carriage that Was waiting for him at the 
station straight on to Mr. Watson’s office, and thence to 
Dr. Barclay’s house ; and at each of these places he 
stayed for some time. The coachman noticed that 
when he came out of the doctor’s house there was a 
black upright line of anger — or sorrow, perhaps — upon 
his brow. His face was harder and more cynical than 
it used to be, and the veil of refinement and culture 
seemed at times to have grown very thin. 

When he had been to the doctor’s, he told the man 
to drive back to the lawyer’s office ; and here he had a 
second (but this time a short) conversation with Mr. 
Watson, during which the lawyer’s face became even 
blacker than his own. 

“ Of course you must do as you please. Sir Anthony — ” 

“Of course!” ejaculated the baronet, in rather an 
unconciliatory tone. 

“ And I have no right to speak ; but it is impossible 
for things to go on as they are — ” 

“ Why impossible, if I choose to have it so?” 


CHRISTMAS EVE. 


73 


“The terms of Lady Kesterton's will, Sir Anthony — ” 
“Pooh! that doesn’t apply. Look here, Watson: I 
will have no interference. The children are left in my 
care — I suppose you will not deny that? — and if I pro- 
vide for them suitably, may I ask what business it is of 
yours who or what they are?” 

“ Certainly not. Sir Anthony,” said Mr. Watson, who 
was a bald, rosy-cheeked man with grizzled whiskers 
and a rather anxious expression of countenance. “ Not 
under present circumstances ; but you must acknowledge 
contingencies might arise — in which — ” 

“ You mean that I might die?” inquired Sir Anthony 
coolly. “ My dear fellow, I have a superb constitution. 
And that little chap at Kesterton is a hopeless invalid 
— deformed — twisted spine, and all that sort of thing. 
It is hardly likely that there should ever be any neces- 
sity for a discussion about his origin. His life will not 
be a long one. ” 

“ But there is another child. Sir Anthony. ” 

“ The girl — oh, well, she is only a girl. Girls don’t 
count for much, Watson. I shall make it all right for 
her, of course ; but there is no hurry. ” 

The little lawyer leaned back in his chair and put the 
tips of his fingers together with an air of exasperation. 

“ It seems to me. Sir Anthony, that your easier course 
would be to state the whole truth at once. ” 

“ Do you? I have other views. You will find them 
out in time, Watson. And at present may I ask you to 
recollect that you are sworn to secrecy.” 

As Sir Anthony rose, the lawyer rose also and bowed 
assent, 

“ I recollect that fact,” he said dryly, “ and I protest— 
I beg to protest!” 


74 


SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET. 


“ Protest as much as you like, so long as you hold 
your tongue,” said Sir Anthony; and then with a curt 
farewell he passed out into the street and gave the word 
to his coachman for Kesterton Park. 

Left alone, Mr. Watson fell into a brown study, and 
tapped his temples with the fingers of his left hand in 
a very reflective way. 

“His views!” he said to himself, “ Now what can 
he mean by that? His views, indeed!” 

Perhaps the rapping aided his mental powers, for by- 
and-by a bright thought seemed to strike him. 

“ He means to marry! That’s what he means to do! 
And he thinks this story will stand in his way. Lord ! 
as if a respectable young woman wouldn’t rather know 
the truth as it is than believe what half the county 
believes about poor Mary Derrick. But my fine gentle- 
man doesn’t think so. His pride is hurt by the poor 
little lad’s misfortune, I suppose: especially if it is true 
that he himself brought it about. Well, well, I’ve 
promised to hold my tongue ; but I shall break my 
promise if I see harm coming to the innocent and 
unprotected. By the way, I wonder what Austin White 
is doing now!” He pressed an electric bell, and turned 
briskly to the door when his clerk appeared. “ Get the 
Clergy List for this year,” he said, “and look me out 
the name of the Reverend Austin White, recently a 
curate in the parish of St. George’s, Bloomsbury. See 
if he is there still, or where removed to.” 

In three minutes the clerk was back again, with a slip 
of paper on which he had written down the information 
required. 

Mr. Watson put up his gold-rimmed eye-glasses and 
looked at it. 


CHRISTMAS EVE. 


75 


“ Ah, got a living, I see, ” he murmured to himself as 
the clerk retired. “ Not a big one, I see. St. Fillans- 
in-the-South — that’s an odd name — Bishopsgate, E. C. 
I will make a note of that. Aye, and in case of acci- 
dent — in case of accident. Sir Anthony Kesterton — 
somebody else shall have a note of it too.” 

Pie wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper, and inclosed 
the sheet in a large square envelope, which he then 
sealed with red wax and his own signet-ring. He then 
wrote a sentence upon the envelope ; 

“ To be given, at my death, to Miss Elfrida Pastou, 
now resident at Kesterton Park, Kesterton, Southshire. ” 

He added the date, and put the sealed envelope care- 
fully into a drawer of his bureau. 

“That betrays nobody,” he said, “and it gives her a 
chance; for, if Tm not mistaken, she’ll always be the 
leading spirit of those two. ” 

Meanwhile, Sir Anthony was driving to Kesterton. 
There was a look of intense irritation upon his face. 

“What a meddlesome old fool Watson is!” he was 
thinking. “ Why in the world did I ever take him into 
my confidence?” 

He reached the Park in time for dinner, but the din- 
ner was not to his liking, and the whole place had a 
desolate, uncomfortable air, which caused him to mutter 
maledictions upon it at intervals all through the even- 
ing. Even the recollection that the new cook was com- 
ing on the morrow, as well as a staff of servants, failed 
to cheer him. What a fool he had been to return home 
at Christmas-time, of all times in the year! And to 
think it was a letter from that confounded young sim- 
pleton, Phil Winyates, that had brought him! And to 
what end? To what end? 


76 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


Perhaps it was in order to find an answer to this 
query that, after dinner, when he had drunk his black 
coffee and smoked his cigarette. Sir Anthony left the 
library, went upstairs and sought the west wing. It 
was long since he had trod that corridor or peered into 
these rooms. One might have thought it possible that 
on such an occasion he would be touched by some fleet- 
ing passion of regret; but if so, he successfully con- 
trolled all manifestation of it. His eye was as un- 
troubled, his mouth as cruelly contemptuous as ever. 

In the room that had been Mary’s, he found Mrs. 
Terry sitting at her needle. The nurse knew by instinct 
who her visitor was, and dropped him a respectful curt- 
sey even while she measured him with shrewd, far-see- 
ing eyes. He had grown a long moustache during his 
absence from England, and the moustache was slightly 
streaked with gray : otherwise he was not much changed 
from the man who had refused to listen to poor Mary’s 
entreaties and had struck poor Mary’s child in that very 
room two years before. Mrs. Terry had never seen 
him, but she had no difficulty in recognizing him from 
a description often given to her. 

He entered at once upon the matter which had 
brought him to Mrs. Terry’s room. He wanted to 
know what she thought of the boy whom she had been 
engaged to nurse ; and what did she think of his 
chances of recovery? a question at which Mrs. Terry 
shook her head. 

“Of life, then?” 

There, again, Mrs. Terry was doubtful. She said a 
few words about modes of alleviation, of comforts, and 
even of luxuries, that she would fain see supplied. Sir 
Anthony cut her short ruthlessly. 


CHRISTMAS EVE. 


77 


“ He can have anything you think necessary or good 
for him. You have but to order it. It will be” — with 
a little shrug — “only for a time.” 

“ It may be for a good long time, sir,” said the nurse. 
Then, after a pause: “It’s a pity the young gentle- 
man’s not as strong as Miss Elf rida; she’s as healthy 
as posible. Would you like to see them, sir? They’re 
asleep in this next room.” 

Sir Anthony nodded, and followed Mrs. Terry into 
the bedroom, where a little cot stood beside the nurse’s 
larger bed. Elf rida slept in a smaller room — a sort of 
dressing-room beyond. 

Little Henry’s face was beautiful as ever, and in his 
sleep there was no trace of pain or fretfulness. Sir 
Anthony looked at him for some minutes, and was 
heard by the nurse to sigh — a fact which somewhat soft- 
ened her judgment of the gentleman. He turned 
toward the sitting-room again after that long silent 
gaze, and the nurse, in some surprise said : 

“ Wont you look at Miss Elfie, sir?” 

“Oh, no, not to-night,” he said carelessly. “I can 
see her another time. ” 

And then he turned on his heel and went downstairs, 
leaving Mrs. Terry even more indignant than she had 
been before for this neglect of the little girl. But Sir 
Anthony had never professed to take any interest in 
Elfrida. 

Philip came on the twenty-fourth, and by that time 
the household had been to some extent reorganized, 
and the place was beginning to take on its old aspect. 
Phil remembered the Christmas decorations of his boy- 
ish days, and was glad to see a load of holly and laurel 
branches being carried into the hall. He began to stick 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


78 

the green red-berried sprays into the old blue vases and 
between the antlers of the stags’ heads on the walls, as 
he had done when he was a boy; and Sir Anthony, 
coming out of the library as the dressing-bell rang, 
found him busy at the work. 

“Why, Phil!’’ he said, in a more good-natured tone 
than was generally heard from him, “ do you cultivate 
the old superstitions still?’’ 

“Some of them,’’ said Phil, with a laugh. “I’ve 
always a dislike to seeing the Christmas decorations 
done only by the servants — I like to have a hand in it 
myself.” 

“ There’s the bell. Have your things been taken up 
to your room? Is that parcel yours?” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Philip, coloring a little — he knew not 
why. “It’s a toy for the little chap upstairs — little 
Paston. I suppose he’s here still? I thought of him 
as I came through London and saw the shops so full of 
children’s things.” 

A singular look came into Sir Anthony’s face; Philip 
could not tell whether it betokened sarcasm or impa- 
tience. 

“Yes, the boy is here,” he answered rather coldly 
“ You had better bring it up with you now — one does 
not want children’s toys scattered all over the house.” 

So, somewhat to Philip’s discomfiture, he was obliged 
to pick up his parcel and follow in Sir Anthony’s wake 
to the west wing, instead of reserving his gift for Christ- 
mas morning. 

“ Christmas Eve’s just the same thing,” said his host, 
when he uttered a deprecatory word. 

Dressed and lying on his little invalid couch, the boy 
showed his weakness (and also the slight deformity 


CHRISTMAS EVE. 


79 


which was beginning to make itself manifest) so much 
more plainly than he had done in his bed, that Sir 
Anthony could not repress a little start. He looked 
hard at the child, and did not at first notice the little 
girl, who was standing by. Elfrida did not put herself 
forward. The color had rushed into her face as soon 
as she saw Sir Anthony, but she seemed rather desirous 
of slipping out of his sight than of attracting notice. 

Phil made his present, which excited great delight 
in Henry’s mind, and then recollected, with some 
regret, that he had brought nothing for Elfrida. 

“ I forgot the little girl !” he said, with a look of com- 
punction toward Mrs. Terry, who stood close by. 

“Oh, Miss Elfie don’t want nothing, sir,” said the 
nurse cheerily. “What’s given to Master Henry is 
given to her too. That’s what we always say, isn’t it, 
love? Besides, there’s Santa Claus to come to-night, 
and he’s sure to bring her something. ” 

. Thus appealed to, Elfie answered for herself, and 
brought Sir Anthony’s cold eyes upon her. 

“ Santa Claus wont come for me any more,’’ she said, 
“ now mammy’s dead. ” ^ , 

There was rather an awkward little pause. Then 
Sir Anthony, with his eyes still fixed upon her face — a 
face so oddly, so strikingly, like his own — put his hand 
into his pocket and brought out a piece of gold. 

“Take that instead of vSanta Claus’s gifts,” he said. 
“ You can get yourself what you like with this. 

To his surprise, the child put her hands behind her, 
started back a pace or two, and violently shook her 
head. 

“Miss Elfie, dear!” expostulated the nurse. 

“ I dont want anything from him, ” said Elfrida, look- 


8o SIR Anthony’s secret. 

ing darkly at Sir Anthony from under her delicate 
frowning brows. 

“Why not from me?” asked Sir Anthony, laughing, 
and still tendering the coin. But his face twitched a 
little as he spoke. 

Mrs. Terry cast one swift glance at him, and then 
muttered something about seeing whether there was a 
light in the next room — a mere excuse for absenting 
herself. She had some idea of what the child was 
going to say, and knew that she would not be withheld 
from saying it. She guessed, also, that Sir Anthony 
would not wish a paid attendant to hear the message 
that Elfrida had to give. 

“ ril take nothing from you but what I can’t help,” 
she said. 

“ And why, Miss Spitfire?” 

She- looked him straight in the face, with innocent 
accusing eyes, which, in spite of himself, made the 
man shudder and glance aside. He wished at that 
moment that he had not come — that he had not spoken 
to the girl — that Philip was not there. But it could not 
be helped. He must hear what this childish vixen had 
to say. 

“ Mammy told me to give you a message,” she said, 
“and I’ve said it over every night so that I mightn’t 
forget it. She said : ‘Tell him I forgive him, and 
wished him well, and hoped he’d be good to my chil- 
dren. ’ Those were the very words. But although 
mammy might forgive you, I didn’t, and I never shall.” 

There was a curious sensation among her. hearers. 
Mrs. Terry, in the next room, caught her breath and 
said: 

“ What next?” 


CHRISTMAS EVE. 


8l 


Philip wheeled round on his heel, looking first at his 
cousin, then at the child, as if struck by something — 
something new and terrible, and unexpected. 

Sir Anthony had turned white to the lips, and stood 
frowning, with hands clenched, as if he almost longed 
to strike to the earth the daring little mortal who defied 
him. But Philip’s presence restrained him more than 
any other could have done. 

“You monkey!” he said at last, with something like 
a laugh, though there was no mirth in it ; “ what have 
you got against me, I should like to know?” 

“You struck Henry,” said the child, with suddenly 
flaming eyes. “You struck him so that he fell down 
and hurt his back. They say he’ll grow up crooked and 
ill, and it’s all your fault. You did it — and I’ll not 
have your presents, because I hate you and I hate 
them.” 

“ You little fiend !” exclaimed Sir Anthony sav- 
agely. Then he turned abruptly away from her and 
called to Mrs. Terry. “ You had better keep that little 
demon out of my sight, ” he said, pointing to the child 
with a long lean forefinger that trembled in spite of 
his efforts at self-control, “or some day I may be 
tempted to do her an injury. Remember — I don’t wish 
to set eyes on her again. Keep her out of my way.” 

He threw the sovereign on the floor, where it rolled 
to the very feet of Elfrida, who would not condescend 
to look at it, much less to pick it up. Then he went out 
of the room and banged the door, 

6 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE CAROL-SINGERS. 

Philip and Sir Anthony dined together rather uncom- 
fortably on that Christmas Eve. They were not silent, 
they talked a good deal on various subjects; but a bar- 
rier seemed to have risen up between them. It existed 
chiefly, of course, on Phil’s side. He was startled by 
the repetition of what Elfrida had said to him once, 
months before, and still more startled by the message 
from her mother which she had given to Sir Anthony. 
He had always liked and believed in his cousin ; but 
these revelations seemed to him incompatible with the 
character which he had formerly ascribed to Anthony. 
He was puzzled, grieved, and even shocked ; for he was 
a young fellow of pure mind and elevated tastes, and 
the discoveries that he had made repelled him. 

Sir Anthony was much less disturbed than his guest. 
He had recovered, while dressing for dinner, from his 
passing fit of rage, and was determined to make the 
best of it. He talked about things in which Philip was 
interested: books, chiefly, and points of scholarship; 
and he talked in a masterly way, with ease, discrimi- 
nation, and a fine, stinging wit, which could not fail to 
command the listener’s admiration. Sir Anthony’s 
tone, too, was admirable : cool, gentle, now and then 
ironical, but marked throughout by good taste and 
judgment. He could hardly have conciliated Philip 

82 


THE CAROL-SINGERS. 


83 


better, in an indirect way ; but he soon saw that he was 
not making as much progress as he would have desired. 

“ I shall have to speak more plainly,” he said to him- 
self, when he adjourned with his cousin to the library. 

They sat reading and smoking for some little time. 
At last Sir Anthony put down his paper and surveyed 
Philip steadily. The young man was apparently intent 
upon a book ; but he had not turned a leaf for half an 
hour. His brow was bent, his head was leaning list- 
lessly on his hand, and his elbow was supported by the 
library table. Sir Anthony was leaning back in a long, 
low, lounging chair. He looked the impersonation of 
repose in body and in mind. 

“Phil, old fellow!” he said, in a peculiarly soft, 
almost a caressing, tone of voice, “ I want to talk to 
you. ” 

Phil started, thrust his book away, and faced his 
cousin with an air of such eager expectancy that Sir 
Anthony congratulated himself on his diplomatic skill. 
It would evidently not have done to let the matter 
slide ; Phil was on the qui vive for an explanation. 

“You have been puzzled this evening,” said Sir 
Anthony. 

“Yes, I have,” Phil answered bluntly. 

“ I wont ask you why,” his cousin said quietly, “for I 
know too well. ” And then he paused a little, looking 
down at the paper on his knee. 

He was secretly averse to the course he had made up 
his mind to pursue. Very few men like deceit, although 
so many practise it. Then Anthony Kesterton had also 
been brought up in the paths of virtue, and knew that 
a man of honor must not tell another man a lie. What 
he told to a woman did not perhaps matter so much. 


84 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


But deliberately to deceive a man of bis own standing, 
his own family, and for his own ends, was an ugly 
thing to do. 

“I know,” he said, suddenly raising his head, “that 
I have exposed myself to a good deal of misunderstand- 
ing and malicious remark by some of my actions. To 
the world I do not care to explain myself. To you, 
Philip, I choose to vindicate my character.” 

“Thank you, Anthony,” said Philip, very warmly. 

But his cousin raised a warning hand. 

“ Wait,” he said. “ You may not be able to see mat- 
ters as I see them; you may misjudge me and blame 
me too ; for I cannot tell you more than half the story, 
after all. These children, Phil — they were poor Mrs. 
Paston’s children, certainly; but I beg you to under- 
stand that they are none of mine.” 

There was a little pause, during which Philip made 
a short inarticulate sound of relief. 

“ She was a married woman, but her husband’s name 
was not Paston. He was a friend of mine, who met 
her here at Kesterton — in the village — some years ago, 
and married her. He took her up to London, and they 
lived there until he died. But before he died the two 
had quarrelled. She found out that he had not been 
constant to her ; and she vowed solemnly that neither 
she nor her children should ever bear his name. She 
insisted on taking another surname — chosen, I think, 
at random, and when I offered her the situation of 
housekeeper here — for she was quite destitute — she 
accepted it only on condition that she might keep that 
name.” 

“Very foolish of her,” said Philip, “seeing what a 
slur it cast upon herself and her children.” 


THE CAROL-SINGERS. 


85 


“ Exactly. I argued the case with her, but to no 
avail. I sent Watson to talk to her too — no use. She 
held to her determination, and forbade us to tell the 
children their true name and history until they were 
twenty-one. ” 

“ But surely you can use your own judgment now?” 

■* I gave my word, Phil — unfortunately. You heard 
the fiery message she sent me — she would never forgive 
me, and so on? It was because I betra5^ed her secret to 
old Watson, in case anything happened to me when I 
was abroad. For my poor friend’s sake, I did not like 
to think that no one might ever know the children’s 
history. But she resented it, as you heard.” 

“ I am glad you told me that, Anthony. And there 
is one thing more, you know — ” 

“Oh, the little fellow’s fall! Well, of course the 
child’s version is all rubbish, as I need hardly say. An 
accidental stumble when I was playing with him— that 
. was all. Nobody could ever have attributed a shadow 
of blame to me, except a woman with an extraordi- 
narily diseased mind — such as Mary Paston. I doubt 
even whether that stumble did the mischief ; but it is 
plain that she thinks it did, and that she has impressed 
that belief on her little daughter’s mind.” 

Sir Anthony sighed as he spoke, as if he were the 
most ill-used of men. 

“ The child must be told to hold her tongue !” cried 
Philip indignantly. 

“ Better let tho memory fade from her mind, as it 
will do by degrees, ” said Sir Anthony smoothly. “ Well, 
then, you see, Phil — that’s all of the story that I can 
tell you at present. My poor friend gave me a sort of 
charge to look after the children; and that is why I 


86 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


take a certain amount of interest in them — especially 
as this accident, or whatever it was, took place in my 
own house. It is a little difficult to know what to do 
with them. ” 

“ School,” suggested Phil. 

“H’m! yes: they are rather young for school — and 
the boy is so delicate. I don’t see why they should not 
stay quietly here for a little while — I look upon them 
as my wards, you know — they do no harm in the west 
wing with Terry to look after them.” 

The proposition was made so negligently that Philip 
had some difficulty in realizing what afterwards struck 
him as its remarkable generosity. 

“Children in the house?” he said. “Wont they dis- 
turb you?” 

“ They must keep to their own quarters, of course. 
The boy is not able to make much disturbance ; and the 
girl must be kept in order. Oh, merely a temporary 
arrangement, you know. We might find a home for 
them by-and-by. ” 

“ Had their father no relation living?” 

“ None who could be of use.” 

“ And the mother’s people?” 

“Well, they\\YQ in the village. You know them — 
the Derricks. The man was once a keeper; he is lame 
now, and has a small pension. ” 

“ You are very liberal to your people, Anthony,” said 
Philip, with a touch of admiration in his tone. 

Sir Anthony laughed quietly. 

“ My dear boy, it pays best in the long run,” he re- 
plied. “And now — have you acquitted me?” 

“ I have to beg your pardon for having for one 
moment — ” 


THE CAROL-SINGERS. 


87 


“Tcht! Phil, don't talk like that. It was most 
natural on your part — especially after what that little 
vixen said. But come, now, tell me a little about your- 
self. I am behindhand with the news. I heard some- 
thing about a girl — Beatrice Larose. " 

“ Don’t speak of her,” said Philip, flushing like a girl. 

“Was it so bad? Poor boy! I saw her marriage in 
Galignani the other day. Married Beltane, did she not?’’ 

“ Yes. I was too poor for her. Too undistinguished. 
Life with me would be social extinction, she informed 
me; and she had never dreamed of such a thing.” 

The remembrance of his love troubles had for the 
moment thrown Sir Anthony s affairs into the back- 
ground. Sir Anthony was glad of it ; he wished them 
to remain there. He had a project of his own in his 
mind ; and almost every sentence led him closer to the 
thing that he desired. Philip was screening his eyes 
with one hand ; he did not see the smile that played for 
a moment over his cousin s keen quiet face. 

“ My poor Phil ! But she would have dragged you 
down, old boy. I know the woman; ambitious, cold, 
worldly — hard as nails. You would never have got on. ” 

“ I should have worked as well as other men, I think, 
for her sake. ” 

“ Better than other men, probably, and killed your- 
self in the doing of it. Have you thought seriously, 
Phil, of what you mean to do with yourself?” 

“ I have thought I had better go out to Texas,” said 
Philip, a little bitterly. “ There seems no place for me 
in England. I have, I believe, two thousand pounds 
of my own ; it seems to me that my best plan would be 
to purchase some land and farm it — ” 

Sir Anthony's laugh checked him. 


88 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ You are so well prepared for that kind of life, are 
you not? Come, don’t look angry. I mean what I say. 
You have not the bucolic temperament: you care for 
men and books and modern thought — ” 

“ I care for nothing at all just now,” said Phil, shak- 
ing his head. 

““Ah, that is Lady Beltane’s fault. But you will 
forget Lady Beltane in course of time. And — I do not 
wish to interfere with your plans — but I think I have 
some little right to express an interest in them.” 

“ Every right!” said Philip warmly. 

“ And there is a certain career which I should like to 
see you follow, Phil. You are never happier than in a 
quiet studious way of life : you ought to give yourself 
up — to a certain extent — to literature. I think that is 
your vocation.” 

“ Easily said. I have no excuse for giving myself up 
to that kind of life — I have yet not met with any con- 
spicuous success in the literary line,” Philip answered, 
with a smile that showed pleasure. 

“ It is your callings for all that. At any rate, you 
might try it for a year or two. The fact is, I am saying 
one word for you and two for myself, Phil. I want you 
to come and live here with me.” 

Phil looked at Kis cousin, and reddened to the roots 
of his chestnut hair. 

“ It’s very good of you, Anthony; but I could not live 
in idleness — ” 

“Who said anything about idleness?” said Sir An- 
thony laughing softly. “ On the contrary, I want you 
to work tremendously hard. I am not offering you a 
berth where you will have nothing to do. I want some 
one to look after the estate. It is a land agency that 


THE CAROL-SINGERS. 


89 


I ofifer you, tny dear fellow, neither more nor less. The 
man who was here before has just left, after robbing 
me, I am informed, to some incredible extent. I used 
to give him three hundred a year and a house. I’ll 
give you five, if you will live here with me and throw 
in a little secretarial work from time to time as well. 
It would suit me exactly, and I think it would suit you. ” 

Philip sat silent from sheer astonishment. He had 
thrust his hands into his waistcoat pockets as he listened, 
and eyed the ground attentively. He felt that he looked 
rather stupid — rather obtuse— but he was too startled 
to seem otherwise. 

“ You would not be here all the year round, of course,” 
said Sir Anthony, who watched his face somewhat 
eagerly. “We should spend some time in London 
every year. I should not at all care for you to be tied 
to the estate. If I went into Parliament — ” 

Philip looked up quickly. 

“ But I don’t think I shall do that,” his cousin went 
on. “ You are a more likely man for that than I am, 
Phil.” 

“It’s awfully good of you,” said Phil, finding his 
tongue at last, “ and I don’t know how to thank you. It 
sounds splendid; but I see some objections. Suppose, 
for instance, you married. Your wife would not want 
me in the house. ” 

“ There is the house Jenkins had. That is hardly an 
objection. Besides, my wife — if ever I have a wife — 
must not object to my friends. I don’t make it a con- 
dition that you shall live with me, you know. I only 
say that for the present — I should like it.” 

Thus skilfully, and not too rapidly, did he dispose 
of Philip’s objections one by one, until at last they were 


90 


SIR Anthony's secret. 


all vanished, and the young man declared himself only 
too well satisfied with the prospect of a quiet, hard- 
working life at Kesterton. He knew well enough that 
the chance offered to him was one which many a man 
would grasp at ; and the only thought that really ruffled 
his spirit was the fancy that he might be throwing up 
the game of life, abandoning the struggle, settling down 
to ease and inactivity too early in the day. 

Meanwhile, Sir Anthony watched him stealthily, and 
smiled a little as he watched. 

“We shall do well now,” he said, thinking of the 
neglected estates, of his own much neglected business 
affairs, and of the comfort that it would be to have 
Philip always at hand. “ Once here, he will never go 
away — unless I send him. He is bound to me for life.” 

In the silence that had succeeded the long discussion, 
there came to the ears of the two men the sound of 
music. The carol -singers were going their rounds, and 
had evidently heard that Sir Anthony was at home. 
From the terrace outside their voices — sweetened b)^ 
distance — rose and fell in musical cadence upon the 
frosty air. 

“ Intolerable nuisance!” said Sir Anthony at last in 
an undertone ; and then he rang the bell. 

“ If you send them away,” said Philip, “you’ll offend 
Kesterton village for ever and ‘ever.” 

“ I shall not send them away — in your sense of the 
words,” replied the master of the house, with a little 
smile. “ Stevens, take the singers into The hall — or 
kitchen — and give them some hot wine and some sup- 
per; and here’s my Christmas contribution.” He held 
out a couple of sovereigns. “ I think they had better not 
sing any longer, it is getting late. There, Philip!” as 


THE CAROL-SINGERS. 


91 


the door closed on the man, “ I hope you give me 
credit, at least, for diplomacy!” 

“ I do indeed,” said Phil — little knowing how much of 
it had been expended upon himself that evening. 

They fell into another long silence after this, and 
Philip listened dreamily to the dying away of the carol- 
singing, and the tramp of the singers through the hall. 
He rather liked the carols himself, and was sorry that 
they had been cut short. 

A knock at the library door sounded quite ghostly in 
the stillness, and the apparition that followed it was 
perhaps more startling still. It was the figure of a 
small girl — Elfrida Paston, to wit — with her dark hair 
in glorious confusion, and one hand holding up the long 
white nightdress a little way, so that the bare feet might 
not trip in its snowy folds. 

Sir Anthony’s brow darkened. He muttered some- 
thing to himself, and his limbs seemed to turn rigid as 
he lay back in his chair ; but he did not speak aloud. 
Philip sprang to his feet, almost as if the child needed 
protection — or restraint. Was it possible that she was 
walking in her sleep? 

She did not look at him, or heed his exclamation of 
dismay. She walked straight up to Sir Anthony, 
stumbling a little over her night-gown as she walked, 
and holding out to him something that she had hitherto 
held tucked within her hand. 

“Here,” she said, showing him the sovereign which 
he had offered to her, “ I have brought you this. Not 
to give it back, though ; only to show it you. ” The 
fearlessness of the clear little voice struck even Philip 
as amazing. “ Terry’s been talking to me. And she 
says it’s Christmas Eve, and the angel will bring peace 


92 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


and good-will down to everybody but me, if Fm so 
naughty; and I went to bed and didn’t listen to her or 
say my prayers or anything, and in the middle of the 
night I woke up and heard the angels bringing peace 
and good-will, and so I’ve come to tell you that I am 
sorry for having been naughty to you, and that I wish 
you a merry Christmas, after all. ” 

“ What rigmarole is this?” said Sir Anthony. 

“She heard the carol-singers,” said Philip in a low 
tone. He was more moved by the incident than Sir 
Anthony. 

“ So I brought back your gold piece, ’' said Elfrida, 
“to tell you that I’ll keep it if you like; but I wont 
spend it; I’ll have a hole made through it and wear it 
on a ribbon inside my dress, so that I may always re- 
member how naughty I was. Because Terry says you 
are not unkind, but very good, and that Henry and I 
are to be very good to you too. May I keep the gold 
piece?” 

“ Oh, yes, keep it,” said Sir Anthony; “ but you had 
better spend it for yourself and Henry. And how did 
you manage to get down here? Philip—” 

“I’ll carry her back,” said Phil. “Come along, lit- 
tle woman!” 

His voice ^as very soft and kind as he spoke to her. 

“Yes, I’ll come,” said Elfrida. “But — /te — ” she 
pointed to Sir Anthony, “ he hasn’t said good night and 
wished me a merry Christmas yet!” 

Phil looked at his cousin. And it was perhaps owing 
to this look that Sir Anthony rose into a sitting posi- 
tion, and allowed himself to be kissed. 

“Good night, then,” he said. “Oh, yes, I wish you 
a merry Christmas, of course. Remember, Elfrida, 


THE CAROL-SINGERS. 93 

you are not to do this sort of thing again. Stay in your 
own rooms another night.” 

“ He wasn’t very nice, was he?” Elfrida confided to 
Philip as he carried the light little white-robed figure 
up the stairs. “ But I’m glad I wished him a merry 
Christmas, or else the angels would have been angry 
with me; and to-morrow’s Christmas-Day. ” 

But she left very little “peace and goodwill” in the 
heart of the solitary man in the library downstairs. 


CHAPTER IX. 


L'ADY beltane’s COUSIN. 

Lord Beltane was a very wealthy peer. He had a 
castle and moors in Scotland, large estates and a coun- 
try-house in Yorkshire, and a fine town-house in Lon- 
don. His rent-roll was close on forty thousand pounds 
a year, and it was reported that he was growing richer 
month by month, for coal had been discovered on his 
Yorkshire estate, and he was the proprietor of certain 
oil-springs in America. If anybody could afford to 
marry a portionless damsel, it was he; and, accord- 
ingly, he took to wife Miss Beatrice Larose, who had a 
very handsome face and not a penny to her fortune, 
and who had distinguished herself among her friends 
by a very pronounced flirtation with an equally penni- 
less young man called Philip Winyates. Some of Miss 
Larose’s friends had even prophesied that the two would 
elope; but Beatrice’s indisputable good sense came to 
her a;id, and she ended by throwing poor Phil over and 
accepting Lord Beltane. And the marriage was a 
complete success' — at any rate, from an outsider’s point 
of view. 

“ I do not see what more you want,” said Lady Bel- 
tane’s cousin to her one day when the matter was under 
discussion. 

“Of course you don’t!” cried Beatrice petulantly. 
“We are as different — you and I— as dark from light, 

94 


LADY beltane’s COUSIN. 


95 


as fire from ice, as the hot south from the chilly north!” 
And from her disdainful lips, and the quick glance of 
her haughty eyes, it was easy to conjecture which of 
the similes she applied to herself and which to her 
cousin, the Honorable Eva Lester. 

Miss Lester still. In spite of the wiles of Lady Kes- 
terton and other matrons on her behalf, in spite of her 
own most carefully calculated and ladylike schemes to 
attract a really eligible suitor, there seemed small like- 
lihood that she would ever be asked to change her name 
and state. 

She had altered very little since the days of her visit 
to Kesterton Park, and although she was now nearly 
eight-and-thirty, she looked a comparatively young 
woman. Lady Kesterton was right in prognosticating 
that she would become handsomer as she grew older. 
She was still cold-looking and somewhat colorless ; but 
no one could deny her the qualities of refinement and a 
stately kind of elegance. She was, indeed, a contrast 
to her cousin Beatrice, who at two and-twenty was in 
full flush of loveliness and vivacity, and loved to accent- 
uate the intensity of her exquisite coloring by every 
possible device of dress and ornament. She knew the 
power of her beauty ; she gloried in it, and it was per- 
haps for this reason more than for any other that she 
was disliked by Eva Lester. But Miss Lester was wise ; 
it suited her to stay at Lady Beltane’s house in town 
sometimes, and even Beatrice herself did not suspect 
that Eva detested her almost as much as she detested 
Eva Lester, 

“ Nevertheless,” said Miss Lester, after that little out- 
burst from Lady Beltane, “ I have sufficient imagina- 
tion, perhaps, to put myself into your place, and to 


96 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


think that there is not much wanting even to your 
desires.” 

“That shows how little you know?” cried Beatrice, 
irritably. “ I have all that the vulgar herd desires, no 
doubt; houses, riches, gowns, ponies, jewels, and a red- 
haired middle-aged husband with a good temper ; and 
yet you do not see how insufferably dull I am ! There 
would have been more excitement in my life if I had 
run away with poor Philip Winyates than there is now.” 

“More excitement,” said Eva dryly, “with Philip 
Winyates?” 

There was infinite contempt in the tone. 

“ Phil Winyates,” said Lady Beltane hotly, “was the 
only man I ever loved. I married to please mamma; 
and even, a little bit, Eva, to please you, I believe ; and 
I am bored — bored to death, as the consequence.” 

“I am sorry for you,” answered Miss Lester civilly, 
“ and all the more so as your trouble is of your own 
making. If you had actually wished to marry Philip 
Winyates — odious young man as he is — nobody would 
have prevented you. I am sure I don’t know what you 
would have lived on; perhaps you would have died, 
which would have been more exciting still, no doubt.” 

“ Lived? We should have lived on bread and cheese 
and kisses, of course,” said Lady Beltane carelessly. 
She was leaning back in an easy-chair, her dark-blue 
tea-gown making a bewitching contrast to her long 
white hands and golden hair ; her slender foot in its 
bronze shoe and embroidered stocking thrust negli- 
gently forward upon a satin cushion. As she spoke she 
raised her arms, from which the loose velvet sleeves fell 
away, displaying the finely turned wrists to great ad- 
vantage as she crossed her hands behind her shining. 


LADY beltane’s COUSIN. 


97 


graceful head. “ Tell me what you would have done, 
Eva,” she said, with a slight trace of malice in her lazy 
tones, “ if you had married a poor man — but then you 
never would, would you? even if you had had the 
chance!” 

The color rose in Miss Lester’s placid face. 

“ You know very well that I have had several chances, 
as you call them, Beatrice ; but I did not see my way. 
Of course, I could not accept a man whom I did not 
respect — and love.” 

“ And, of course, you could not respect — or love — a 
man who had not a great many thousands a year ; that 
goes without saying. How did you manage to let Sir 
Anthony Kesterton slip through your fingers ten years 
ago? Oh yes, I know all about it, although I was only 
a chit in the schoolroom at the time. ” 

“ Ten years ago? I did not know Sir Anthony Kes- 
terton ten years ago, my dear Beatrice,” said Miss Les- 
ter loftily. “ You exaggerate in the most extraordinary 
way. ” 

“You are mistaken,” persisted Beatrice resolutely; 
“you knew him very well. The lapse of time evi- 
dently is unnoted by you, Eva, my dear. You were 
staying at Kesterton Park before old Lady Kesterton 
was taken ill ; why, it must be more than twelve years 
ago, not ten, for it is only nine since the poor old lady 
died.” 

“You seem to be very well acquainted with the 
dates — ” 

“You forget,” said Lady Beltane, with a gay little 
laugh, “ that my beau Philippe was at Kesterton Park 
when you were there. He used often to tell me about 
those happy days.” 

.7 


98 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


Miss Lester was not easily discomposed ; but some- 
thing in her cousin’s tone struck her as unbearably in- 
sulting, and she half rose as if to leave the room. But 
Beatrice’s laughter rang out once more, this time with 
a less mocking ring. 

“ My dear, I was only in joke ; don’t take offence about 
nothing. Sit down, and I’ll tell you a piece of news. 
Sir Anthony is in town.” 

“ Yes?” said Miss Lester, in a tone meant to imply 
that the news was of no interest to her at all. 

“Yes,” said Lady Beltane, mimicking her with con- 
siderable success. “Yes, indeed. And report says, by 
all that’s wonderful, that Sir Anthony desires a wife.” 

“I dare say he will easily find one,” said Eva, who 
seated herself again and was putting stitches very sowly 
into an elaborate piece of needlework. “ There are 
plenty of pretty girls about just now, and this is the 
height of the season.” 

“ That’s true. But Sir Anthony does not look to 
me like a man who wants merely a pretty girl. I met 
him last night at the Haldanes’. You have hardly got 
the kernel of my news yet, Eva. He was asking after 
you very pointedly. ” 

Eva said nothing, but she flushed slightly. 

“ I forgot to tell you before,” said Lady Beltane, with 
her usual insouciance of manner. “ He said that he 
should like to call, and I told him you would be pleased 
to see him. Was that right?” 

“Perfectly; I shall be pleased to see Sir Anthony 
again.” 

“ How gravely that is said ! Eva, if I were you I 
wouldn’t be prejudiced; you know, by the gossip of the 
town about him. A man is none the worse for having 


LADY beltane’s COUSIN. 


99 


been a little wild in his youth — at least, so Beltane 
says, and he ought to know ! And, of course, it would 
be worth your while — Kesterton Park isn’t half a bad 
place, I believe.” 

“ I do not think it is worth while to discuss a thing 
which is so extremely unlikely to happen,” said Miss 
Lester, with great primness of manner. 

“ I should hope you would at least acknowledge that 
it is worth your while to make a good match!” cried 
Beatrice indignantly. 

. “ I know that my family would be glad to see me do 
so, ” replied Eva, not lifting her eyes from her work. 

“ I am sure we are always delighted to see you here, 
Eva, and you know you are wonderfully young-look- 
ing — for your age ; but we must not forget that Betty is 
coming on, and by the time she is out — ” 

“ Betty! Betty is not in her teens yet,” said the ex- 
asperated Miss Lester; but Lady Beltane considered 
discretion to be the better part of valor by this time, 
and made her escape from the room with a little titter 
of laughter. 

Left alone, Eva at once put down her work and rested 
her head against the back of her chair. Beatrice’s 
; words had stabbed her in the most sensitive part of her 
nature — in the pride which she had nourished in secret 
until it had attained a gigantic growth. She had little 
to be proud of. She was the only daughter of an im- 
poverished baron with tarnished reputation, who had 
left her exactly*^one hundred and twenty pounds a year 
for all her fortune. On this small allowance, Eva had 
to dress, travel, and visit. She had no fixed home, 
being always “ passed ” from one friend or relation to 
another, at whose houses she did her best to make her- 


lOO 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


self agreeable and useful. But she was not so success- 
ful as she could have wished. And of late there had 
not been signs wanting to show that her friends were 
growing tired of her. She was bitterly tired of the life 
she led — tired of always seeming gracious and pleased, 
and at everybody’s beck and call. 

And there was a younger generation growing up — a 
generation of pretty girls — daughters, nieces, cousins — 
who “ could not see why that Eva Lester should always 
be invited to make one of their house party.” And 
here was Beatrice — Beatrice, whose marriage she had 
helped to bring about, and with whom she had hoped to 
find a constant home — Beatrice taunting her with her 
age and flinging Lord Beltane’s young sister, Betty 
Stormont, in her face, so to speak. Eva felt it to be 
very hard. Marry? She would marry the first person 
laying claim to eligible qualities that would ask her ; 
but the worst was that nobody did ask her. 

It was a very pretty and luxurious drawing-room 
looking out on the Park, in which she sat ; and as she 
meditated, her eye ran over its appointments with a 
smile of satirical wonder at Beatrice’s discontent. If 
she had half as good fortune as Beatrice, she said to her- 
self, would she not be content? And then there flashed 
across her mind the remembrance of a scene in Kester- 
ton Park which she had not thought of for years, a scene 
in which an old woman, bent and wrinkled, took for a 
minute or two the chief part. Eva seemed to hear her 
muttering her queer prediction: “a widower” — “the 
two ways” — the word of warning at the close. She 
shook her head impatiently at the remembrance. 

A visitor was announced even while she sat thinking 
these mournful thoughts, and, in spite of her usual selL 


LADY beltane’s COUSIN. 


lOI 


possession, Miss Lester felt herself color at the name 
“ Sir Anthony Kesterton.” Had he come to see her, or 
Lady Beltane? she wondered. She had not cause to 
wonder very long. He gave her to understand, clearly 
and unmistakably, that he had come to see her. 

She gave him some tea, talked to him of passing 
events, and thought to herself how distinguished look- 
ing he had grown. He was spare, even to leanness, as 
he has always been, pale, grave, almost melancholy, 
and with a manner as near perfection in its rather 
frigid courtesy as it could be. His long moustache 
was growing a little gray, and there was a touch of sil- 
ver at his temples, but these marks of age rather 
improved him than otherwise. His dress was as irre- 
proachable as his manners. 

She pleased him almost as much as he pleased her. 
She corresponded exactly to his idea of what a woman 
in middle life ought to be. He had, of course, no illu- 
sions about her age. If he married, he did not want to 
marry a young woman ; he would almost have preferred 
in his bride a few years more than Eva had actually 
attained. But she was thirty-eight, a very suitable 
age. He was not going to lose time when once he had 
made up his mind. On their third meeting he asked 
Miss Lester to marry him, and she gave her consent. 

“ I have been too long a recluse,” he said to her, with 
the most fascinating of smiles. “ I want you to reclaim 
me from my savage life. We will make the desert of 
Kesterton blossom like the rose, will we not?” 

“ It will be very charming” said Eva. Then, after a 
moment’s hesitation, “ Do you mean to entertain?” 

“We will entertain all the county if you wish. Yes, 

I want a little more life— a little more society, I feel 


102 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


that existence is capable of more than I have got from 
it. I should like to try — in moderation — a new 
way. ” 

Eva was mindful of the words “ in moderation, ” when 
she began to discuss plans for the future with him. 
But she soon found that he was inclined to be gener- 
ous, though not lavish. He made her some costly pres- 
ents, and encouraged her to lead him about to places 
where art-furniture, decorations, upholstery of all kinds, 
could be seen. He agreed to refurnish a great part of 
the old house at Kesterton, and postponed definite 
orders only because he suggested that they could be 
given more easily after the marriage, when she had 
seen the house again, than before it. 

“ It is a perfectly charming arrangement,” said Lady 
Beltane to her cousin one day. She had become very 
affectionate to Miss Lester now, and posed as her dear- 
est and most intimate friend. “ And of course I shall 
be one of your first guests, eh, Eva? I do so want to 
see that dear old Kesterton Park of which I have heard 
so much.” 

Eva was to be married from the Beltanes’ town 
house, so she had no hesitation in replying. 

“ Of course, I shall ask you first, dear Beatrice. But 
for a few months the house will be rather in disorder ; 
it must want a great deal doing to it. Fancy ! nothing 
has been done since the time of Anthony’s father; and 
I remember that in Lady Kesterton’s days the things 
were all fearfully old-fashioned.” 

Lady Beltane did not seem to be listening. She was 
thinking of something else. “Is Philip there still?” 
she asked abruptly. 

“Yes, I believe so/’ 


LADY beltane's COUSIN. 


103 


“You believe: surely you know?” 

“Well, yes, he is there for the present; but I think 
he will leave the house when we return. There is a 
place where the agent has always lived before ; and he 
might as well go to it. ” 

Lady Beltane lifted her eyebrows. 

“ Is that the tone you are going to take?” she asked 
significantly. 

“ I hardly know what you mean, Beatrice. I cer- 
tainly wish to have the house to myself — to Anthony 
and myself, of course. It is always unpleasant to have 
the constant presence of a third person. ” 

“ I thought Phil was a fixture, like the cornices and 
the curtain-poles in a new house,” said Beatrice lazily, 
“ and that you had to take him — at a valuation. ” 

“ Don’t be silly, Beatrice.” 

“ Silly, my dear? I thought that was a very practi- 
cal illustration. And what will Sir Anthony do without 
his secretary? For I hear that Philip did a good deal 
of that sort of work, as well. ” 

“You seem well informed upon the subject,” said 
Eva, looking displeased. 

“ I am as well informed as I care to be. Poor Phil 
was the only man I ever— loved, shall we say? I have 
always liked to hear about his doings. Eva, do you 
know everything about that household? Are you sure it 
is all plain sailing?” 

“I am like you: I know all that I wish to know,” 
said Miss Lester, raising her head rather higher than 
usual. “ Pray don’t try to enlighten me: I am a good 
deal older than you, Beatrice, and I do know something 
of the world, although you are a married woman and I 
am not. I quite understand the story that the world 


104 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

has had in its mouth for the last ten years, and I want 
to hear no more about it. ” 

“ But do you think you will get what you want?” 
inquired Beatrice, in her idlest manner. “ It will be 
awkward, you know, if — after the wedding — there are 
things for which you are not prepared.” 

“ There can be nothing, and I do not wish to hear ■ 
any more about it,” said Eva; and she sailed out of the 
room with a stateliness which equalled that of any 
Lady Kesterton of the past, and promised well for her 
future as the grande da7ne of a country neighborhood. 

“ Does she know, or does she not know?” Lady Bel- 
tane soliloquized. “ At any rate, it is useless to force 
information on her that she doesn’t want. Let her 
wait till she gets to Kesterton Park, and see what she 
finds there. I cannot help thinking that there is some- 
thing — something — she does not know. ” 


CHAPTER X. 


MY WARDS. 

“I TELL you,” said a fresh, clear young voice, “that 
she shall not come in here ; it is our room and she shall 
not come in.” 

“ But Miss Elfie, my dear, she’s mistress of the whole 
place : she must go wherever she pleases. ” 

“No such thing, Terry! Sir Anthony gave us these 
rooms for our very own, and I have a right to keep any 
one out. Don’t you remember when Eliza wanted to 
make them a short cut between the picture-gallery and 
the garden door, and I complained? He said then that 
I might keep out visitors or servants just as I pleased, 
and he had that bolt put on the door. I don’t pretend 
to like vSir Anthony” — with a raised head and gleaming 
eye — “ but now and then he can be very reasonable. ” 

Terry shook her head dubiously. “You’ll find you 
are going too far. Miss Elfie. My lady’s mistress of the 
whole house, and maybe Sir Anthony too. You’d bet- 
ter try to be friends with her.” 

“ Not if she comes in and wants to make a show of 
my poor dear boy — as if he were a wild animal to be 
stared at, as some people think!” And overborne by 
the sense of her brother’s wrongs, the impetuous Elfrida 
suddenly biirst out crying, while Terry vainly tried to 
check her tears. 

” You great dulfer!” came a boy’s voice from another 
105 


io6 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

room. “I hear you crying; Terry needn’t say ‘hush!’ 
on my account. And who has ever made a show of me, 
I should like to know? Come in here and tell me 
about it.” 

Elfrida followed the imperious voice. She had been 
standing in the bedroom with Terry, but at Henry’s 
call she walked slowly into the parlor, as the children 
had named it, and stood by the boy’s couch. 

She was a tall, slim girl of thirteen now, with a mass 
ai curling dark hair which fell over her shoulders in 
wild but picturesque confusion. Her face — pale, small, 
and thin — was at present all the more unremarkable 
because its features were so regular and so delicately 
cut, but the pair of eyes which looked out from it were 
of rare beauty for color, form, and expression. But if 
she were not very likely to attract admiration, so much 
could hardly be said of her brother Henry’s face, for 
worn and sharpened as it was by years of suffering, it was 
still singularly beautiful, and his blue eyes and golden 
hair were as lovely in color as they had been when he 
was three years old. Nearly two years younger than 
Elfrida, he was older than his sister in intellect and 
judgment ; it was he who already laughed her out of 
her fits of rage, reasoned with her when she was vio- 
lently prejudiced, was seriously grieved when she was 
positively naughty. 

The case just now was serious. For more than three 
months Elfrida had been sorely distressed by the incur- 
sions of workmen on the precincts of the park. Masons, 
whitewashers, paper-hangers, upholsterers, had come 
and gone in fine confusion, and the whole house had 
been turned upside down. When the girl made an 
occasional expedition into the main part of the house. 


MY WARDS. 


107 


she found chaos first and an alarming novelty after- 
ward. A great portion of the furniture was removed ; 
new hangings on the walls and new decorations altered 
the whole aspect of the rooms where she had wandered 
surreptitiously, with awe and reverence since the days 
of her babyhood. For it had been an understood thing 
that she was not to show herself in those parts of the 
house frequented by Sir Anthony and his friends ; the 
baize door at the end of the corridor leading out of the 
picture-gallery shut the two children into their own 
domain and away from the body of the mansion. 
Another room had lately been put into requisition for 
Elfrida’s sole use, and Terry slept in the ante-room 
opening out of Henry’s apartment. Terry had grown 
into an institution ; she was guide, co7ifidante^ and friend. 
The children would have been desolate indeed without 
her. Not that their part of the house was particularly 
quiet: the kitchen and the servants’ rooms were in the 
west wing, although at a lower level ; but the sound of 
their voices, and occasionally — to Elfrida’s great dis- 
gust — certain odors now and then ascended to prove the 
near neighborhood of serving-men and maids. She 
had a somewhat haughty dislike for the household 
domestics, and, as she did not conceal it, she was little 
of a favorite with them. To even a gentler soul their 
alternate patronage and servility would have been 
trying. For the children’s position remained undeter- 
mined; and the servants behaved to them as their na- 
tures dictated, or as they thought after-circumstances 
would justify them in doing; the consequence being 
that obsequiousness from one would be followed by 
rudeness from another, both varied at times by absolute 
neglect, 


io8 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

Elfrida was not of a placid disposition, and these 
changes of manner and treatment were not calculated 
to soothe her nerves. She was subject to fits of pas- 
sionate wrath and indignation, and was capable, at such 
times, of acting in a headlong, hasty manner, which 
involved herself in considerable perplexity and trouble. 
And it was in one of these “tempers,” as the servants 
contemptuously styled them, that she had once turned 
Eliza out of the room and appealed to the master of the 
house to prevent her and her brother’s room from being 
used as a sort of thoroughfare. To go through them 
saved the housemaids a long detour^ as they had very 
soon 'discovered; and they would have availed them- 
selves of it to a considerable extent but for Sir 
Anthony’s intervention. Sir Anthony had, for once, 
supported Elfrida, and declared that she was mistress 
of those four rooms in the west wing, and might do 
with them what she pleased. It was rather a rash 
authorization to give, for Elfrida gloried in it, and took 
advantage of it in ways in which he did not expect. 
And, therefore, it was that she had said of the new 
Lady Kesterton — “she shall not come in!” 

Sir Anthony had been married early in July, and had 
taken his bride forthwith to Switzerland, and thence, 
at a later date, to Scotland. They had called, for a few 
hours only, at Kesterton Park on their way ; just long 
enough to enable I^ady Kesterton to make up her mind 
as to the colors she wanted for the drawing-rooms, her 
boudoir, and her own apartments, but not long enough 
to go through the whole house. Elfrida, as usual when 
strangers were in the house, had been kept strictly 
within the bounds of the west wing, by Mrs. Terry; 


MY WARDS. 


109 


and she had not yet seen Lady Kesterton, whom she 
vaguely detested without quite knowing why. 

Perhaps her dislike arose from a few words of Ter- 
ry’s, murmured when the old woman thought that one 
of her charges were asleep. Henry was Terry’s pet 
and darling ; and it was while she leaned over his bed 
one night that a few tears fell on his forehead, and she 
muttered to herself words that the boy — not sleeping, 
after all — heard and repeated to his sister. “ Ah, poor 
lambs, it’s not \on^ you'll be here. ” Mrs. Terry had 
mourned to herself. “The new mistress will twxnyou 
out fast enough! And what you’ll do then, my dears. 
Heaven only knows.” 

It was enough to impress the minds of two children 
with a sense of something vaguely terrible consequent 
on the arrival of Lady Kesterton. And with Elfrida 
there was also an instinct, almost maternal, to save and 
protect her invalid brother. 

When Henry called to her she went slowly into the 
parlor, and, still sobbing, seated herself on a footstool 
beside him. He was lying on a couch which had the 
advantage of possessing every possible mechanical con- 
trivance for his comfort. There were screws by which 
it could be raised or lowered, a book-rest, appliances 
for candles, writing materials and a writing-table. 

“ I don’t see what you are making such a fuss about,” 
said the boy, with his usual good sense. “ The work- 
men were very jolly. There was one chap who painted 
the window frames — he used always to look in and nod 
and ask how I was. And he brought me the lame 
blackbird in a cage, you know. ” 

“I know-; but that’s different,” said Elfrida, with a 
feminine want of logic. “ She will only come to peer 


I 10 


SIR Anthony's secret. 


and pry, and perhaps she’ll want to turn us out. Where 
should we go if she did? To the workhouse?” 

“ Oh, no. Sir Anthony would not let us go there ! 
Didn’t somebody say we had relations in the village? 
Perhaps we should go and live with them. ” 

Elfrida turned her eyes of flame on him. “ Do you 
mean the Derricks? Do you mean that you could live 
there — in a cottage? I should not mind for myself, but 
you — you ! — ” 

She was unable to go on. 

“I don’t think I should mind,” said Henry placidly.. 
“But, at any rate, there’s Philip; he’d never desert 
us.” 

“But Philip isn’t rich: he hasn’t a house,” said 
Elfrida, sobbing. 

“ He’ll have one some day. If Lady Kesterton turns 
us out I dare say she’ll turn him out too,” said Henry, 
with a sort of comfortable assurance of companionship 
in disaster. 

Elfrida caught at his hand, and sat beside him trem- 
bling a little, but subdued, and gradually becoming 
calm. It was rather sad to see the two children — waifs 
as they already felt they were — sitting hand in hand, 
waiting for the word of command that might come at 
any moment to sever their moorings from all that had 
ever seemed secure, and cast them adrift upon the ocean 
of a troublesome life. 

As they sat silent, voices and footsteps were heard 
outside the door. The handle was turned — turned 
again and again. Then came a voice they knew. 
“ What’s the matter with the door?” And then a quick, 
peremptory knock. “ Terry, are you there?” 

Elfrida sprang to her feet and listened, her eyes 


MY WARDS. 


I IT 


dilating, her cheeks flushing in a curious way ; but she 
did not go to the door. 

“Why can’t he open it?” said Henry, who had recog- 
nized Sir Anthony’s voice. “ Elfie, open it, quickly — 
do. ” 

“ I bolted it, ” said Elfrida, almost inaudibly. Then, 
while the door handle was shaken somewhat roughly, 
she added, more to herself than to Henry, “He said I 
might keep people out. ” 

“Oh, Elfie, open the door!” cried Henry. “It’s Sir 
Anthony, and you know you ought to do what he tells 
you. AVhere’s Terry? Why doesn’t she come?” 

“ She went out by the other door. I hope they wont 
think of that; I can’t lock that door,” said Elfrida. 

Meantime the knocks and the rattling of the handle 
were renewed. “ Elfrida, are you there? Open the door 
if you are.” But Elfrida kept a triumphant silence, 
and Henry’s feeble answer to the call could not be 
heard. Presently the noise ceased, and Sir Anthony’s 
voice — more vexed and less indolent than usual — was 
heard to say, “No one is there, perhaps. The door 
must have been bolted and forgotten. Another time — ” 
His accents died away with the sound of retreating 
footsteps, and Elfrida, snapping her fingers with delight, 
began a noiseless ecstatic dance of triumph round the 
room. 

“What is the use?” said Henry. “They will only 
come another time, and be angry with us if they know. 
And Sir Anthony has been very kind; you have no 
business to hate him so much. ” 

“It doesn’t matter whether I hate him or not,” 
averred Elfrida. “ He does not care.” 

She stopped suddenly in her frolic, and listened 


1 12 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


intently. “Oh,” she cried, with a sudden gloom over- 
shadowing her countenance, “they are coming the 
other way!” 

And as she spoke the sound of voices and footsteps 
was once more heard, accompanied by the rustling of 
silk-lined skirts, which betokened a lady’s approach. 
Elfrida turned crimson and held her breath. Henry 
looked toward the bedroom door with gentle interest. 

“ Oh ! — and who have we here?” said a lady’s voice — a 
smooth, low voice, which was not pleasant to the chil- 
dren’s ears. “ A boy — and a girl?” 

She stepped forward into the parlor, her eyeglass 
raised, her draperies rustling behind her. Sir Anthony 
followed, stepping this way and that, to avoid treading 
on his wife’s Paris gown. He had a rather odd expres- 
sion upon his face — a quizzical look, half embarrassed 
and half amused. He and his wife had returned from 
Scotland the night before, and this was her first thor- 
ough survey of the house. 

She was beautifully dressed, and looked colder and 
younger than ever as she gazed through her eyeglass 
at the children. 

“Visitors of yours. Sir Anthony?” 

“ Wards,” said Sir Anthony, with a little smile deftly 
concealed under his long moustache. “ Elfrida and 
Henry Paston.” 

“Indeed! What Pastons are they? The Pastons of 
Somersetshire? How do you do?” said Lady Kester- 
ton, with a slight inclination of her head to Henry, 
who had smiled at her. At Elfrida she continued to 
look steadily and curiously, but without bestowing any 
greeting upon the girl. 

Sir Anthony Coughed, and Henry answered the last 


MY WARDS. 


113 


question for himself. “ 1 am not very well, thank you ; 
I never am. But I have not so much pain as I used to 
have, because of this beautiful couch vSir Anthony got 
for me. You see it lifts up and down, and I can write 
or read quite easily.” He was used to explaining 
his condition and its alleviations to visitors. Perhaps 
Lady Kesterton was attracted by his face or his tone, 
for she went and stood beside him, looking at him as 
he talked. Pie showed her the mechanism of the 
couch, and put the reading-desk up and down for her. 
“ Wasn’t it kind of Sir Anthony?” he said, with a smile 
so sweet that one could hardly have supposed it possible 
that he could ever be an object of dislike. 

“ Ve?'y kind,” said Lady Kesterton, with extreme 
emphasis. Then she turned to listen to what Sir 
Anthony was saying. 

“ You locked us out, did you?” with a slightly dis- 
pleased but still more amused accent. “And why, 
may I ask?” 

“ You said I might keep out all the world, if I liked,” 
said Elfrida, defiantly — “ that I was queen of the west 
wing, and might do what I pleased with it. ” 

Sir Anthony shrugged his shoulders, and his wife once 
more bestowed a stare through her long-handled glass 
upon the audacious Elfrida. 

“Ah,” he said lazily, “you are deposed, Elfrida. 
This lady is the queen of the whole house, as you will 
see before very long. Now go and unbolt the door. ” 

She went slowly, her face working, and the tears once 
more gathering in her eyes. She set the door wide 
open, and looked at her visitors as if she longed to tell 
them to go. But Lady Kesterton had walked to the 
8 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


114 

south window, and Sir Anthony stood smiling, as if he 
rather enjoyed the child’s distress. 

“ What a lovely view!” said Lady Kesterton. “ This 
room would make a charming music-room, Anthony. 
I wonder you have never turned it to some account.*’ 

“It might be used in that way, certainly,” said her 
husband, looking hard at the two agonized young faces 
now turned to him in mute entreaty. 

“The walls colored and the floor stained,” said Lady 
Kesterton, “ and soft sage-green silk hangings — it would 
be charming. ” 

“ So it would, ” agreed Sir Anthony, still smiling. 
“ But come, Eva, we have the other rooms to see ; we 
need not linger here.” 

He held open the door for her and let her sweep past 
him with all the grace of movement for which Lady 
Kesterton was beginning to be renowned. Then he fol- 
lowed her and shut the door. Neither of them had an- 
other word or look for the girl and boy whom their 
words had plunged into the depth of youth’s hopeless, 
helpless, limitless despair. 

As for Lady Kesterton, she said to her husband as 
soon as the door had closed: 

“ You are much too kind, I am sure, Anthony. How 
rudely that girl spoke to you! What a little savage 
she is!” 

“ She has not prepossessing manners, certainly,” said 
Sir Anthony, with a laugh. 

“ So plain, too! I suppose they have no money?” 

“ Not a penny. ” 

“ You are too generous. That boy — oh, how I hate 
to see deformed people and cripples ! Of course I am 


MY WARDS. 1 15 

very sorry for them, but it makes me sick! I am sure I 
shall dream of him all night.” 

“ I hope not, dearest.” Sir Anthony still affected the 
lover now and then. They were pacing the picture-gal- 
lery, and he put his arm delicately round her waist. 

“ I should have thought he would be better off in some 
institution or hospital for such cases, where he could 
have every appliance and a trained nurse,” said Lady 
Kesterton. 

“He has a trained nurse already. Terry, who looks 
after the children, has all the qualifications.” 

“ Really! And have they been here long?” 

“ Nearly all their lives,” said Sir Anthony dryly. 

“ Dear Anthony, you are quite too good — quite too 
unworldly!” said his wife; but in spite of the sweetness 
of her tone. Sir Anthony smiled, and thought that he 
recognized a flavor of sub-acidity beneath it. 


CHAPTER XL 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 

Sir Anthony was an astute man, and knew perfectly 
well the end his wife had in view. Not being given to 
illusions, he had never expected her to acquiesce quietly 
in his arrangement for keeping the little Pastons under 
his roof ; and, indeed, knowing his will to be impreg- 
nable, he promised himself some amusement from her 
efforts to dislodge them. As a matter of fact. Lady 
Kesterton was more startled and offended by her en- 
counter than she chose to allow. She had heard of the 
children before her marriage, and had awaited with 
some anxiety the explanation that she fully expected 
Sir Anthony to make. Of course, she said to herself, 
he would give her the history of these children, about 
whom rumor had been so busy. But to her very great 
surprise, he did not say one word ; and it was not for 
her, she told herself, to ask questions about his private 
affairs. But his silence, during the three months of 
their absence among Swiss alps and Scottish moors, 
had seemed a sort of assurance that whatever was likely 
to displease her in their future life together had been 
got rid of ; and she came back to Kesterton in full con- 
viction that the two little interlopers, of whom she had 
heard, had been quietly sent away to school or to some 
other home. 

The last thing she anticipated was to find them in- 
116 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


II7 

stalled at the Park — “in the best part of the house,” 
as, by an angry exaggeration, she told herself — with a 
suite of rooms, an attendant, every possible comfort and 
luxury, and evidently also — perhaps this point annoyed 
Lady Kesterton more than any other, with the habit of 
taking their own way. To Lady Kesterton this was in- 
tolerable. And, quite unreasonably, she felt as if she 
had been deceived. 

It was natural that she should somewhat exaggerate 
to herself the advantages of the children’s position. 
Elfrida certainly had the range of a large house and 
fine grounds; Henry’s sufferings had every alleviation 
that money could procure. For him, at least, Sir 
Anthony did not spare expense. Apart from her dislike 
to pain and sickness in all their manifestations. Lady 
Kesterton did not object so much to Henry. 

He could be kept out Of her way: probably he would 
not live long ; and there was nothing about him to be 
dreaded. The utmost Sir Anthony was likely to do for 
him was to leave him an annuity by will ; and to this, 
also. Lady Kesterton had no objection. It was Elfrida 
who was the thorn in her side; Elfrida — whom, for 
reasons of her own, she hated as soon as she looked at 
her; Elfrida — who must at all costs be got out of the 
house. 

She was a difficult child to govern, and even more 
difficult to understand. It was saddening to her to see 
Henry in his hours of pain. Terry was not the wisest 
of companions, and she had few friends besides Terry 
and Henry. There were long hours during which she 
roamed about the Park, dreaming of all things outside 
her actual life, or sat curled up in one of the window- 
seats of the picture-gallery, absorbed in the perusal of 


ii8 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

some old story-book which she was reading for the hun- 
dredth time. 

The one new interest in life which had lately accrued 
to her came from Philip Winyates’s discovery that 
neither she nor Henry was being taught anything. 
Terry had shown her how to read and write, and she 
had taught Henry — that was all. 

Sir Anthony met Philip’s representations with a 
scowl. 

“ I am sure I go to enough expense for those children 
without providing tutors and governesses for them,” he 
had said ill-naturedly. “ The boy is too ill to be taught 
much; and the girl — oh, it doesn’t matter about the 
girl!” 

That was always the refrain, the shadow, that over- 
hung Elfrida’s life — she was but a girl, and it did not 
matter about a girl. Terry said the same thing, though 
she did not mind it from her. Sir Anthony implied it 
by every glance of his eye and every tone of his voice. 
She was of less than no importance — she was only a 
girl! 

Strange to say, Philip thought that a girl’s character 
and mental training were as important as those of a 
boy ; and as Sir Anthony would not procure a teacher 
for her, he set to work to organize some scheme of 
work which he himself could superintend. He told her 
what to read and what to learn, corrected her sums and 
her Latin, took her out with him to sketch, and allowed 
her occasionally the treat of copying a letter or a manu- 
script. Until Philip took her in hand two years before, 
Elfrida had been a veritable little dunce ; but she was 
naturally quick, and the previous emptiness of her 
life made intellectual work a great joy and a great re- 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


II9 

source to her. But for Philip she would have been 
desolate indeed. 

Philip had grown quite naturally and by imper- 
ceptible degrees into a fixture at Kesterton Park. He 
had plenty to do in looking after the estates, and also in 
assisting Sir Anthony with his literary work. Phil 
himself was ready with his pen, and found time to 
write a good many critical and literary articles, which 
were admitted into two or three of the leading maga- 
zines and reviews. His name was becoming known in 
the world of letters; and with his growing fame, his 
quiet country life, and his steady routine of every-day 
work he had reason to be well content. 

But all this seemed likely to be changed by Sir 
Anthony’s marriage. Lady Kesterton’s alterations in 
the rooms of the house pointed to some alteration in its 
master’s habits. Kesterton Park was to be thrown 
open to the world again ; and the world was all agog to 
come, to pry, and to investigate. For a quiet man like 
Philip there would very soon be no place at all. 

He spoke of this to Sir Anthony soon after his return, 
and suggested that he should take rooms in the village 
or hire and furnish a little house. Sir Anthony pooh- 
poohed the idea. 

If my wife sees company,” he said, that is no rea- 
son why we should not shut ourselves up here, if we 
choose, and do our own work as usual. She knows that 
I do not intend always to show at the big parties she 
talks of giving. I shall want somebody to keep me 
in countenance. ” 

“ You will not want me long,” said Philip smiling. 

“ Well, if I’m not a sufficient attraction to you, there 


120 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


are the children,” said Sir Anthony, rather adroitly, 
“ and they would be stranded without you. ” 

Philip was silent for a minute or two and then said 
hesitatingly : 

“ Will not Lady Kesterton take them in hand?” 

“No, by Jove! she won’t,” said Sir Anthony, with a 
little smile. Then, looking keenly at his cousin, he 
added: “Don’t you see how she hates them already?” 

“Hates them! Surely not.” 

“ Yes, she hates them. And if 5^11 want to do them 
a good turn and me a favor, Phil, you would go to her 
to-morrow morning and tell her their history. ” 

“ Is that not your business rather than mine?” 

“ Don’t be touchy, dear boy. We have had a sharp 
word or two about them already, and madam’s tongue 
is something of a sword. Tell her you come from me, 
and she will listen.” 

Philip was reluctant to take this mission upon him- 
self, but Sir Anthony pressed the suggestion. And, 
having yielded at last, it came to pass that he Sought 
Lady Kesterton next morning in her boudoir and 
begged to speak to her. 

Eva was coldly surprised. She had never liked Philip 
Winyates; and it seemed to her ridiculous and almost 
insulting that he should be made the envoy of her hus- 
band. However, she consented to hear him, and listened, 
almost in silence, while he told her the story of the 
Paston children, as Sir Anthony had recounted it to 
him. 

“It is a little incomplete,” she said, looking away 
from him with an impassive face. “You do not tell 
me their real name, nor the name of their father.” 

“I do not know it myself. I understood that Sir 


THS: NEW MISTRESS. 


121 


Anthony was bound by a promise until they had reached 
a certain age.” 

“ It seems that Sir Anthony can keep a secret.” 

“ His friend’s secret!” said Phil, somewhat hotly; for 
the cold, pale woman always irritated his nerves. It 
was more on account of her presence, than because of 
the coming gayeties, that he had wished to leave the 
house. 

She bowed her head politely. 

“Thank you, Mr. Winyates. Is that all?” 

“That is all my message,” said Philip, with embar- 
rassment. “ I should like to say, for my own part, 
what interesting and intelligent children they are : lov- 
able, I think, beyond the common run of children, and 
much in need of care and — and a mother’s love.” 

A terrible flash shot from Lady Kesterton’s blue-gray 
eyes. 

“ It is scarcely my part to be a mother to them, ” she 
said coldly. “ But of course they will have every care 
and attention that Sir Anthony desires. ” 

Philip, perceiving that his audience was at an end, 
was about to leave the room ; but an abrupt question 
detained him for a minute. 

“ The girl — I should think the girl was clever?” 

“ She is naturally clever, but she has not been taught 
very much. ” 

“ And she will have no money, I understand?” 

“ I believe not.” 

“ She ought to be trained to do something useful.” 

“Yes, ’’said Philip, scarcely realizing what she meant 
by this remark. “ If she were well taught I think she 
might easily make a position for herself.” 

And then Lady Kesterton let him go. 


122 


SIR ANTMONY^S SECRET. 


Sir Anthony thought that he had done very wisely in 
making Philip his ambassador, for at luncheon that day 
he found his wife smiling, calm, and amiable: quite 
disposed to agree with him on every conceivable point, 
and to flatter him about his literary productions. Sir 
Anthony listened with a little of the air of a cat that 
is being stroked. His bent brows relaxed, his lips 
twitched and pushed his moustache upward as he smiled 
at her. He was quite satisfled with the result — and so 
was she. 

When they were alone together, she said pleasantly; 

“ There was no need to send Philip to tell me the 
story of your generosity, dear. I should like to have 
heard it from your own lips.” 

He cast a quick glance at her. 

“ You were annoyed with me, dearest, and I had not 
the courage to plead my own cause. ” 

“Ah, how foolish of you!” she said, in her sweetest 
tones. Then, after a little pause : “ Philip says that 
one of your proteges is very clever — that she ought to be 
educated.” 

“ Educated ! She is only a girl — what does it matter?” 

“ Dear Anthony ! The poor child must be properly 
taught, or she will blame us afterward. If she has tal- 
ent, what a pity to waste it — to see it running wild!” 

Sir Anthony was a little puzzled. Had his wife really 
developed an interest in Elfrida? What did all these 
praises of her mean? They continued for some days. 
Elfrida’ s quickness, Elfrida ’s talent for drawing, for 
music, for languages, Elfrida’s abilities in general, 
were forced upon his attention until he was tired of the 
subject. 

“ I think I have heard enough about that child’s tal- 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 


123 


ents,” he said one day in the dryest of tones. “ I never 
had so much of her in my life before. She is becoming 
a nuisance.” 

Lady Kesterton put her handkerchief to her eyes. 

I did not mean to vex you, Anthony. I only 
wished to rouse you to a sense of your duty. The poor 
girl is dependent upon you, and you are not fitting her 
for her future position — whatever that may be. There 
are capital schools at Brighton or Eastbourne — ” 

“Elfrida is not going to school,” said Sir Anthony, 
rising and leaving the room, with a frown of extreme 
displeasure upon his brow. 

So this was what she had been striving to bring about ! 
No, he was not going to send the child away to please 
her. If she was so keen about Elfrida's education, he 
did not mind paying a governess to come and live in 
the house. 

But here he met with the obstacle of another will, as 
inflexible in its way as his own. 

Lady Kesterton absolutely refused to have a gov- 
erness in the house. 

Sir Anthony grumbled to Philip, but found to his sur- 
prise, that Philip was rather on Lady Kesterton ’s side. 
School would be the very thing for Elfrida. The only 
difficulty would be the separation from her brother. 
What Henry would do without her, and how she would 
bear to leave him, Philip could not possibly imagine. 
And again Sir Anthony refused — rather violently this 
time — to separate the children or to send the girl away 
from Kesterton. 

But as continual dropping wears away the hardest 
stone, so Sir Anthony’s adamantine will began to be 
impaired by the trickling of his wife’s reproaches, 


124 


SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET. 


After all, why should not Elfrida go to school? It 
might be better for her — it would certainly be better 
for his domestic peace. As to Henry, he must remain 
where he was. There was a curate in the village who 
could come up and read with him every day if he wanted 
education. He and his sister would spend the holidays 
together, and that would be enough for them. 

Sir Anthony’s decision was given with considerable 
irritation of tone and manner, but his wife had gained 
her point, and did not mind how she gained it. In spite 
of prejudices and narrowness, she tried, in her own way, 
to be just, and really set to work to find a really good 
school for the little girl. She also authorized her own 
maid to overhaul Miss Paston’s wardrobe, and to fur- 
nish her with a list of the things that she would 
require. 

At present, however, Elfrida was not informed of her 
destiny. It was December before Sir Anthony yielded 
to his wife’s urgings, and she could not be sent away 
until the beginning of another term. 

In the mean time, guests were coming to the house, 
and, in view of any possible revolt or lamentation on 
Elfrida’s part, it was decided that she should not know 
what was to happen to her. 

Philip thought the decision unwise, for he knew she 
would half break her heart over the separation from 
Henry, and that it might be well to accustom brother 
and sister beforehand to the idea of parting; but he 
was overruled, and felt it his duty to keep silence. 

Terry’s idea, when she saw the new frocks and hats 
and shoes that were daily arriving for Miss Elfrida 
Paston, was that her darling was going to be introduced 
to all the fine folks” who were to spend Christmas at 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 1 25 

Kesterton ; and she overflowed with pride and content- 
ment at the prospect. 

“ Going down to breakfast and luncheon maybe you 
are,” she said to Elfrida, “ and out for drives and rides; 
perhaps some other young lady going to stay here with 
you, and you’re to be got ready to be a companion for 
her. That will be nice, won’t it, dearie?” 

“ I don’t think I like girls,” said Elfrida. “ At least, 
I don’t know any, but — ” 

“Oh, you mustn’t speak in that way. Miss Elfie; it 
ain’t becoming. You must hold up your head and re- 
member you’re as good as any of them. I heard some- 
thing about Lord and Lady Beltane coming, and per- 
haps they will bring Lord Beltane’s step-sister, that’s 
about your age, I believe. That will be nice for you.” 

Elfrida was silent for a minute. 

“What is her name?” she asked at length, almost 
unwillingly. 

“ Lady Betty Stormont. I don’t know whether that’s 
her Christian name or not; maybe it’s Lady Elizabeth; 
but everybody calls her Lady Betty. ” 

“ Lady Betty ! I like that name ; it sounds awfully 
jolly,” said Henry from his sofa. “ I hope she’ll come, 
don’t you, Elfie?” 

“ I don’t know what it is like to have girls to play 
with,” said Elfie. “Perhaps she’ll be proud and dis- 
agreeable — all fuss and feathers, like the doctor’s 
daughters in the town — and not choose to speak to 
me.” 

There was already a resentful tone in her voice. 

“ Oh, but she can’t do that if she’s staying here,” said 
Henry cheerfully. Then, struck by some sense of the 
absurd, he burst into the rippling, chuckling boy’s 


126 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


laugh, that almost seemed incongruous when it came 
from that invalid couch, and cried, “ How funny it 
would be to see Elfie and this Lady Betty Somebody 
walking up and down the picture-gallery and refusing 
to speak to one another! Wait, I must draw them; 
give me a piece of paper and I’ll show you how they 
would look. ” 

Quick as thought he was at work, and his pencil soon 
depicted the imaginary scene — Elfrida with her chin in 
the air, meeting an impossible Betty, “all fuss and 
feathers,” with eyes averted and a supercilious smile 
upon her face. The likeness of Elfrida was unmistak- 
able, for the boy had an extraordinary faculty for catch- 
ing likenesses ; but the imaginary Lady Betty was sim- 
ply comic and absurd. The children laughed over the 
drawing, and shut it up in a volume of their produc- 
tions, little imagining that it would ever come to life 
again, or be seen by any but friendly eyes. 

Visitors arrived in quick succession, but, contrary to 
Terry’s expectations, Elfrida was not sent for to the 
drawing-room. She grew a little restless under the 
strain of suspense ; for she had begun to picture to her- 
self the joys and excitement of society, and was anxious 
for them to begin. 

“ Lady Beltane’s come,” she heard Lady Kesterton’s 
maid say to Terry, as they tried another new frock on 
Elfrida’s slim childish figure. “ My lord’s left at home, 
as I expected.” 

“ Why did you expect that?” asked Terry, 

“ Oh, well — there isn’t much love lost, I think. My 
lady’s a good bit younger than him; and there’s an 
attraction here for her, I suppose yon kn^w of that 
engagement—” 


THE NEW MISTRESS. 1 27 

Terry frowned and signed to her not to speak before 
Elfrida. 

‘‘Oh, well, there was no secret about it,” said the 
maid, not very much abashed. “ He was madly in love 
with her, as everybody knew ; and she liked him well 
enough, although she jilted him. I almost wonder he’s 
here; but I suppose the master can’t get on without 
him.” 

“ It’s years ago,” said Terry reprovingly. 

“ Four, since her marriage. She isn’t .more than 
twenty-three, and he’s about seven or eight and twenty. 
Everybody thought that he would go out of his mind 
when she threw him over. Perhaps she wants to whis- 
tle him back again, now that she’s tired of my lord. 
She’ll never be satisfied until she’s quite broken his 
heart. ” 

Mrs. Terry, careful of Elfie’s morals, changed the 
subject; but the child heard and remembered every 
word. It was easy for her to apply what had been said 
to Philip. Henceforth the name of Lady Beltane had 
a curious and hateful fascination for her. 


CHAPTER XII. 


THAT TROUBLESOME GIRL. 

Beatrice, Lady Beltane, was not perhaps so de- 
termined upon the subjugation of Philip Winyates as 
her maid had represented her to be ; but she came to 
Kesterton lazily ready to renew her flirtation with him, 
and a little curious to see whether he had changed. 

“ Certainly he is changed, ” she said to herself, as she 
watched him from the low velvet chair in a dim corner 
of the drawing-room on the first evening of her arrival. 
“ He is not a boy now ; he is a man, and a distinguished- 
looking man — not countrified, as I half expected him 
to be. He will not look at me — that shows that he is 
afraid. I must calm his fears, poor boy, or I shall get 
no amusement out of him. ” 

So, when she caught his eye, she signalled to him 
with her fan to come and sit down beside her. She 
noticed that he advanced with a hardly concealed reluc- 
tance, and did not smile when he seated himself. Lady 
Beltane smiled, if he did not ; but her smile was con- 
cealed by that convenient, ever-ready feather fan. 

You have scarcely spoken to me at all to-night,” she 
said. ‘‘ Have you forgotten me?” 

“No, I have not forgotten^'" he answered quietly, but 
with marked emphasis on the last word. She looked 
at him : his face was refined, intellectual, a little stern. 

128 


“that troublesome girl.” 


129 


She liked it better than in its boyish and perhaps more 
handsome days. 

“ Nor forgiven?” she asked softly, raising her lovely 
eyes to his face and dropping them again. 

He laughed slightly* 

“ Have I anything to forgive, Lady Beltane? On the 
contrary, I ought to be very grateful. ” 

“Grateful, Philip?” 

“You were so wise,” he said, with the touch of 
irony which he had perhaps caught from Sir Anthony, 
and which she found novel inliim and rather delightful. 
“ You knew so well what I needed and what you needed, 
and took the means to satisfy the aspirations of both. I, 
you see, was by nature formed for a scholar and recluse ; 
and you are essentially a woman of the world. We 
have each got what we wanted, have we not?” 

She listened with some surprise in her blue eyes. 
He did not talk in this way in the old days, certainly. 
But her woman’s instinct told her that his cynicism 
was a little unreal. She answered almost tenderly : 

“ You may have got what you wanted — though I 
doubt it; but I have not.” 

Her voice sank to a whisper as she spoke. Philip 
started and looked at her quickly — then looked away 
again, as he murmured, with a rather satirical smile : 

“ Dead Sea fruit?” 

“Oh, Philip, you are cruel!” 

And he answered, almost savagely, though still in the 
lowest possible tone : 

“Was I cruel first?” 

She turned away from him, as if offended, and began 
a conversation with Sir Anthony, who had just drawn 
near. In reality she was perfectly satisfied, even elated, 
9 


130 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


at her success. Philip had not forgotten her — so much 
was certain; and if he had not forgiven, that simply 
showed that she had power over him still. She was, to 
begin with, a thorough flirt ; and yet she had a grain of 
sincerity in her liking for Philip Winyates, who was 
really, as she had said in jest to her cousin, the only 
man who had ever touched her heart. She was de- 
termined to bring him once more to his allegiance ; she 
loved to have men at her feet, and this man, in particu- 
lar, must not be suffered to escape. The estimate 
formed of her by Lady Kesterton’s maid was very 
fairly true: she would not be satisfled until she had 
done her best to break Philip Winyates ’s heart. 

Christmas Day was too full of varied occupations, not 
to say amusements, for her to pursue her designs upon 
him. Besides, to Lady Beltane’s vexation, Philip was 
invisible for a great part of the day. Nobody knew, or 
would tell, where he had gone ; but Sir Anthony and 
Lady Kesterton were well aware that he had chosen to 
walk with Elfrida to a church a mile or two away, and 
then to preside at the children’s Christmas dinner, 
which otherwise they would have had to eat with no 
other companionship than that of Terry. 

It seemed hard to him that Elfie should not be al- 
lowed to come down-stairs and take some share in the 
festivities that were going on ; but when he hinted this 
to Sir Anthony he was met by so cold a look of denial 
that he could not pursue the subject. All that he could 
do was to devote his morning and afternoon to the 
brother and sister, and make merry with them in his 
own quaint, amusing, yet tender fashion. For the man 
who could be cynical with Lady Beltane, coldly courte- 
ous to his cousin’s wife, and business-like with Sir 


THAT TROUBLESOME GIRL. 


i i 


ft 


I3I 


Anthony and his tenants, could also be very gentle in 
his dealings with children, and could amuse them by 
the hour together with games and stories, the sim- 
plicity of which would have provoked a contemptuous 
smile from the fine company down-stairs. 

It was owing to his tact and gentleness that Elfrida 
did not pout at her exclusion from the Christmas Day 
festivities, and was led to believe that it was far 
“nicer" to have their dinner to themselves in the 
west wing and to frolic to their hearts’ content than to 
be “ dressed up" and “ behave properly" in the drawing- 
room. 

There was no lack of good cheer in the west wing 
parlor, nor of bonbons and Christmas presents. Sir 
Anthony was somewhat lavish in ordering all that could 
be desired in that way, and Phil himself regulated the 
choice of gifts. So he was hardly seen by Lady Beltane 
until dinner-time, and then she turned a cold shoulder 
on him because he had been away so long, Philip bore 
her coldness with equanimity ; he wished very ardently 
to be left in peace. 

But that was the last thing Beatrice thought of doing. 
She wanted to torment him ; to awaken the sleeping 
lion in him; to make him thoroughly miserable again. 
Then she would be satisfied, not before. 

Her opportunity came, as she thought, two days after 
Christmas Day. He came into the picture-gallery, 
which was well warmed and formed an agreeable prom- 
enade, and began to walk up and down, as his manner 
was when he was disturbed in mind. It was growing 
dusk and he did not notice at first that Lady Beltane 
was standing beside one of the windows. She waited 
for a few moments, then, as the tramp continued, she 


132 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


grew somewhat piqued at his want of quickness of 
observation. 

“You are very much absorbed,” she said at last, in a 
voice that was both sweet and angry at the same time — 
a voice that could hardly fail to rouse a man from any 
depth of absorption. Philip started, looked round, and 
then walked slowly to the recess. 

“ You are here!” he said, after a little pause. 

“ I am here. Are you sorry?” 

“ How should I be sorry? Of course, I am always 
pleased to see you. ” 

“ You do not show your pleasure. You have avoided 
me ever since I came. ” 

Her voice was plaintive now ; the faint light from the 
window showed something like moisture in her beauti- 
ful eyes, something like a quiver of her charming lip. 
Philip began to think that perhaps he had been unkind. 

“ I did not mean to avoid you. Lady Beltane,” he said 
seriously ; “ but the fact is our paths lie too far apart. 
It is not well to act as if they were nearer to one 
another.” 

“Apart!” she said incredulously; “but why need 
they lie apart? You are not always in the country; you 
come to London sometimes. I have often wondered 
why you never came to see me — ” 

He interrupted her, with a shaken voice, a sudden 
change of countenance. 

“Oh, no!” he said; “you cannot have wondered, 
Beatrice. Surely you knew — you knew. ” 

She put out her hand and laid it on his arm. 

“ Phil, indeed I did not mean to hurt you so. ” 

“You did not mean — that is what women always say. 
Do you think it makes the hurt any better?” 


‘‘THAT TROUBLESOME GIRL.” 1 33 

He had grown fierce and abrupt, but she was not dis- 
pleased ; she was moved almost to tears, but there was 
pleasure in her heart. 

“Forgive me,” she murmured. “Oh, Phil, forgive 
me, and be my friend again!” 

Her eyes were lustrous with tears ; her face was very 
near to his, her hands lay lightly upon his arm. He 
was tempted to give her the word of tenderness for 
which she begged— tempted to forget that she belonged 
to another and not to him. For he loved her still, and 
believed that in her heart of hearts she loved him 
too. 

It was a moment which might have had a dangerous 
ending but for an unexpected interruption. 

Out of the gathering dusk a little figure suddenly 
emerged and stood before them. The shadows of the 
gallery seemed to have mingled themselves with the 
child’s long masses of dusky hair. Her face looked pale 
in the darkness. Beatrice gave a little scream and 
clutched Philip’s arm. 

■ “ I was sitting in the other window-seat and I thought 
you did not know I was here,” said Elfrida’s clear little 
voice. 

Lady Beltane withdrew her hand and laughed. 

“Good gracious!” she said; “I thought that it was 
one of the pictures stepping out of its frame. Why, 
she’s just like — ” 

And there she stopped short. Philip took up the 
word; he spoke kindly, but there was a vague dis- 
pleasure in his tone. 

“Why are you here, Elfie?” he said. 

“ Henry was so ill,” the child answered, “ and in there 
I could not get out of the way. of his crying, and I 


134 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


couldn’t bear it any longer. So I came to sit here just 
for a little while. ” 

“ Henry is ill, is he? Has the doctor been sent for? 
I beg your pardon, Lady Beltane, but will you excuse 
me? This little girl’s brother has a good deal of suffer- 
ing, and I must do all I can for him. Come, Elfrida. ” 

He walked away deliberately, leaving Lady Beltane, 
as she afterwards described it, planUe la^ without a 
word to say for herself, She stamped her foot with 
impatience as soon as he was out of sight, 

“ The little marplot!” she said viciously. ‘‘ I believe 
she did it on purpose.” Then, being changeable as the 
wind, she suddenly burst out laughing. “ Poor Phil ! 
he was nearly kissing me,” she said to herself. “ I’ll be 
even with that little minx some day. She is ‘The Mys- 
tery, ’ I suppose.” 

For by that name the little Pastons were familiarly 
known in the circle of Sir Anthony’s acquaintances. 

She was not actively ill-natured, and did not know that 
she would be doing Elfrida any harm by mentioning 
the occurrence to her cousin Eva. But Lady Kesterton 
was seriously annoyed by it, especially when Beatrice 
commented on the likeness borne by the child to one 
of the portraits in the gallery. 

“ Let me see: this is the 28th of December. I cannot 
ask Miss Forsyth to take her before the 6th of January. 
But on the 6th — yes, she shall go then ; and it will be a 
long time before I have her back again. I will write 
to Miss Forsyth at once.” 

Henry’s attack of pain was acute, but had no serious 
consequences, and Philip soon recovered from the vexa- 
tion which Elfrida ’s interruption had occasioned him. 
He questioned the child, with some curiosity, as to her 


*‘THAT tROUBLESOME GIRL.” 135 

reasons for speaking to him just at that moment. Why- 
had she not addressed him earlier? She must have seen 
him come into the gallery. 

“ I had been crying at first,” Elfrida explained, “and 
when that lady came in, a little while before you, I 
didn’t like to disturb her.” 

“ But you disturbed us both afterwards. ” 

Elfrida blushed and looked so unhappy that Philip 
was surprised. 

“ What was it?” he asked, and pressed her so ear- 
nestly and repeatedly to speak that at last she yielded up 
her secret reason. 

“They said she would not be content till she had 
broken your heart — and I — I didn’t like to hear you 
talking to her. ” 

But she would not tell him who “they” were, nor 
why she identified the “she” with Lady Beltane, and 
when he saw that she was more inclined to cry than to 
reveal anything, he finally left her in peace. 

. But the remark startled him : it made him suspicious 
of his surroundings, and disposed to distrust his own 
self-control. It separated him from Beatrice far more 
than he himself understood. 

The intimation that Elfrida was to go to school on 
the sixth of January was first made to the child by Lady 
Kesterton’s maid, in the very manner which Philip 
would have deprecated. He had meant to talk to her 
about it, and to show her gently that it was for her 
good and for Henry’s good that she should go away for 
a little while and learn lessons with other girls. But 
he had no chance of trying to soften the blow, and it 
fell with a suddenness Avhich crushed brother and sister 
to the earth. 


136 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


He came in one afternoon to find Henry white and 
exhausted with crying, and Elfrida flat on the floor of 
her room, refusing to eat or speak. When at last he 
prevailed on her to look up, her one cry was that she 
would not go — she would not leave Henry — she could 
not live without him. Her mother had told her always 
to take care of Henry, and she would not go ; and noth- 
ing Philip said produced the slightest impression upon 
her. His remonstrances were at last followed by floods 
of tears and choking sobs, but with no abatement of 
her obstinate determination “never to leave Henr}^” 
And next day matters did not mend, but rather grew 
worse. 

All this came to Lady Kesterton’s ears, and caused 
her to bite her lips with anger. Sir Anthony had gone 
away for a few days — perhaps he foresaw the tempest. 
But when he came back — if Elfrida were not then gone, 
would she not throw herself upon his mercy and entreat 
to be allowed to stay? And in that case, might he not 
relent? 

Lady Kesterton resolved to see what she could do to 
break the will of this rebellious girl. She did not want 
to have her carried down-stairs and put into the carriage 
and the train by main force, although she was quite 
capable of having the matter settled in that way if 
necessary. But she would try the effect of her persua- 
sions flrst. She accordingly sent a message to the west 
wing asking Elfrida to come to her in her boudoir. 

The child came at Philip’s bidding only, though 
Lady Kesterton did not know it. She did not wear her 
most prepossessing look. She was white with weeping 
and anxiety ; her eyes were red and swollen, her hair 
was tangled, her dress untidy. 


THAT TROUBLESOME GIRL. 


137 




Lady Kesterton, sitting on a comfortable chair by the 
fire, regarded her with critical dislike. Elfrida stood 
at about two yards’ distance from her, away from the 
soft rug on which Lady Kesterton ’s feet were resting. 

“I hear you have an objection to going to school,” 
she said icily, and in the tone in which one addresses 
a grown-up person. ‘‘ I wish to hear from yourself 
what the objection is.” 

The child’s soft hands clinched themselves; she was 
trying to keep back her tears, and the effort made her 
voice sound abrupt and hard as she replied : 

“ I can’t leave Henry — I won’t go!” 

“ You know, I suppose, that you cannot help yourself? 
that you must go whether you wish or not?” 

“I won’t go! — I’ll run away! — I’ll come back again!” 
burst from Elfrida with a sort of stifled fury. “ This is 
my home — and I won’t leave my brother!” 

Lady Kesterton looked at her sternly and kept silence 
for a moment. 

“ How old are you?” she asked, at length. 

“ Thirteen.” 

“ You are old enough to understand, then, when the 
truth is spoken to you. Listen to me. You talk of 
this place as your home. You have not the least right 
to consider it your home. You have no right here at 
all. But for Sir Anthony’s kindness, you and your 
brother would be outcasts, beggars, workhouse chil- 
dren. You have no money of your own; you live on 
Sir Anthony’s charity. The frock you are wearing was 
bought with Sir Anthony’s money. You owe every- 
thing you have in the world to him, and therefore it is 
your plain duty to obey him. But there is no question 
of obedience in the matter. If Sir Anthony wishes to 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


138 

turn you out, you have no more choice about going 
than if you were a beggar-girl to whom he had given 
a dinner. So you had better go quietly.” 

“ I do not want to stay. I would rather go to the 
workhouse!” cried the passionate, impetuous child’s 
voice. 

“ So would I,” said Lady Kesterton coldly. “ I wish 
you had gone to the workhouse long ago. It was your 
proper place. But you would not have been the suf- 
ferer in that case. It would have fallen harder on your 
brother. Do you think that in the workhouse he would 
have had a nurse, and a sunny, comfortable room, and 
an invalid couch, and dainties of every kind? I sup- 
pose he would have died long ago, but for Sir Anthony ’« 
goodness to him. And now, like a silly little fool, you 
want to throw all these advantages away.” 

‘‘Not for him,” said Elfrida tremulously. “Only 
— for myself. And he would not be happy without 
me.” 

“Would he be happier with you in a hovel or an 
attic? In the workhouse you would be separated, of 
course. There is nothing to prevent your both leaving 
Kesterton, if you like. He could go into a hospital, 
and you could become a scullery-maid. You must 
remember you will have to work for your living when 
you are grown up. You cannot live on charity then^ 
surely. Well, unless you want to be merely a maid- 
servant, or a milliner, you must have a decent educa- 
tion. Sir Anthony offers it t& you at a good school. 
You cannot take your brother to school with you, or 
expect to live here all your life. Why do you make a 
hardship of what is really a piece of good fortune which 
you don’t in the least deserve?” 


“I'HAt TROUBtESOMJi GIRL.” 

The cold, steely tones of the voice produced a 
strangely subduing effect upon Elfrida. As Lady 
Kesterton said, she was quite old enough to under- 
stand. She said, in a low, husky voice : 

I will go; then — you’ll take care of Henry ?’’ 

“Sir Anthony will do what he thinks right,” said 
Lady Kesterton, dryly. 

In another second or two the interview was over, and 
Elfrida was on her way back to the west wing, with 
tearless eyes indeed, but white face and crushed, mis- 
erable heart. But she offered no further opposition 
to the scheme. Lady Kesterton had effectually taken 
all the resistance out of her. 

She left the Park on the sixth of J anuary, therefore ; 
and as it fell out, she did not see it again until full seven 
years had passed* 


CHAPTER XIIL 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 

“Well, I call this jolly! Did 5^ou ever see anything 
finer, Elfie?" 

The speaker was a young fellow of seventeen or eigh- 
teen, who was lying almost flat in an invalid hand-car- 
riage, which was being drawn along the promenade of 
a quiet watering-place one afternoon in September. 
The cheerful tone of his words contrasted strongly with 
the pallor of his face and the evidently enforced pros- 
tration of his attitude ; and it was no wonder that people 
often turned to look at him as he passed, and to look 
also from him to the beautiful girl, radiant with health 
and strength, who was almost always at his side. 

Henry Paston was perhaps a trifle stronger than he 
used to be ; but the malady from which he suffered was 
said to be incurable. He had no power to support him- 
self at all, and had to be lifted from place to place ; but 
he invariably showed the sunny, light-hearted disposi- 
tion that he was blessed in possessing, and was never 
heard to complain of the blight upon his young life. 
His sufferings gave more mental pain to his sister than 
to himself ; but Elfrida’s disposition was always of a 
stormy cast, and she frequently went through heights and 
depths of depression and elation which Henry could by 
no means understand. 

Walking beside him now, she turned on him a look 
J40 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


I41 

of dark-eyed pathos, which arose half out of her affec- 
tion, half out of her pity, for him, and answered, some- 
what sedately: 

“ I think it is lovely, Henry. How glad I am that I 
could come to you this year. ” 

“ Well, I should think you had had enough of that old 
German school — to say nothing of the French pension — 
by this time. You are twenty, Elfie; quite a finished 
young lady. I wonder what you will do' next!” 

“ I suppose I shall begin to teach what I have learnt, ” 
said Elfrida, with a smile. “ That is the next step. I 
wish we could stay here together. If we had a nice 
little house, and I had pupils — ” 

“Yes, it would be very nice,” said Henry, “but — for 
some things, you know — I should be sorry to leave 
Kesterton. ” 

The little carriage had been drawn up at the end of 
the esplanade, and the faces of brother and sister were 
turned toward the sea. No listeners were near, and 
they could pursue their conversation as freely as if they 
had been sitting in the house. Elfrida’ s face was a lit- 
tle sad as she looked out to the horizon. There was 
some disappointment in her heart. 

“ Don’t look like that, Elfie,” said her brother’s voice. 
“ I am not such a brute as you think me, dear. It isn’t 
because I care for luxurious food and lodging — indeed, 
our poor old west-wing parlor is not luxurious at all — 
and I have no preference whatsoever for a mansion to a 
cottage ; but you know that all my associations cluster 
about Kesterton Park. I have never known any other 
home, and I am such a poor fool that I sometimes think 
I could not bear to be transplanted. Don’t you under- 
stand?” 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


142 

“Yes, I think I do, Harry dear. Only it seemS 
strange to me that you should care to live in a place on 
sufferance — ” 

“ Is it on sufferance?” he said, smiling, “ Perhaps it 
is, and I am too weak to mind very much. Wherever I 
am I shall always be on sufferance, you see, Elfie. I 
am on sufferance in the world, and must dree my 
Aveird. ” 

But the pale, • beautiful face wore so sweet and brave 
a smile that it did not seem as if the consciousness 
troubled him very much. She drew a quick little 
breath of sympathy, and laid her hand on his for a mo- 
ment as it lay on the edge of the carriage. “ Then — 
they don’t make you fee/ that?” she asked him — vaguely 
enough, although he knew what she meant. 

“ They are all very kind to me. Oh, you don’t know 
them, Elfie. Sir Anthony is most generous, most lav- 
ish ; and he has lately taken to coming to sit with me 
sometimes. Then there’s dear old Phil ; he never for- 
gets me, although he is such a literary swell nowadays. 
And my room has lately looked like a nursery, for the 
two tots are always in and out, you know.” 

“ Sir Anthony’s children?” 

“Yes, Janey and Gerald. You’ve never seen them, 
have you, dear? You’ll be delighted with them when 
you come back to Kesterton.” 

“ But I am not going back to Kesterton,” said Elfrida, 
with a sudden recoil of two paces. “ I should not think 
of such a thing!” 

“ Why, Elfie! You will go back — now that you have 
left school — if only to see them and thank them for 
their kindness to us.” 

“ I could do that by letter. The Kestertons have 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 143 

been generous to ns, Henry, bnt I do not call them 
kind.” 

“ You grieve me when you say so, Elfie dear.” 

She looked at him in silence, and wondered whether 
he had never complained even to himself at certain 
hardships and grievances that had fallen to his lot. 
She knew well enough how wearisome those two rooms 
in the west wing sometimes became to him, and how 
Lady Kesterton had always refused to let him be seen 
in any other part of the house. When she and Sir 
Anthony were away his chair might be wheeled up and 
down the picture-gallery ; but he had never been farther 
in his life. When he went into the Park he was car- 
ried out at the garden door. Then there were hours — 
long hours — of loneliness, when nobody seemed to 
remember the existence of an invalid in the house. 
There were nights when he could not sleep because of 
the music and dancing that went on in the picture-gal- 
lery ; but np voice was ever hushed for him, no woman’s 
hand but that of the faithful Terry ever smoothed his 
couch or stroked his fevered brow when he was in pain. 
Lady Kesterton had never set foot within his room 
since the day after her arrival in the house. Even the 
servants cried shame upon her coldness of heart ; but 
Henry never seemed to have noticed that she was cold. 

It was to Terry, rather than to Henry, that Elfrida 
was indebted for these details of his life. The little 
that Henry told her was imprinted with his own unfail- 
ing cheerfulness. And she had no opportunity of 
observing his life at Kesterton, for, ‘as we have 
seen, she had not been to the place for several years. 
Her absence had been due to Lady Kesterton ’s clever 
management rather than to any express degree of ban- 


144 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


ishment. When Elfrida’s holidays began in the August 
after her first half-year of school life, Lady Kesterton 
’found that Henry needed change of air, and sent him 
with Mrs. Terry to meet the girl at a quiet little sea- 
side place near Eastbourne. At the following Christ- 
mas and autumn holidays she repeated the manoeuvre: 
sending them to Bournemouth or Seaford, according to 
the time of year, but always manufacturing a good 
excuse. Philip remonstrated at first, but it soon became 
clear that these frequent changes were really beneficial 
to Henry’s health, and the boy and girl enjoyed their sea- 
side experiences far more than they would have enjoyed 
a holiday at Kesterton. Elfrida was too proud to com- 
plain ; but at first she also regretted the changed ar- 
rangements. She had a sort of love for the west wing 
and the Park and all the associations of her childhood — 
a love which she would not allow. In a year or two, 
however, she ceased to crave for her old home, and in 
fact cherished a slight resentment against it and its 
inhabitants, telling herself that she should be glad if 
she never saw the Park or the Kestertons again. 

When she was sixteen. Lady Kesterton sent her to a 
German school, whence she came to England only once 
a year, in the summer-time; and after that she had 
stayed for some months at a French pensioti. She was 
now twenty years old, and had been informed that she 
had spent her last term at school, and that she might 
join Henry as usual at Seaford ; but what she was 
expected to do next she had not the faintest, idea. 
Henry’s suggestion that she should return to Kesterton 
was odious to her. She had not been wanted there for 
seven years; and why should she go back to it again? 
Her recollections of the old days seemed to her intoler- 


. BROTHER AND SISTER. 145 

ably painful ; the cruel speeches that Lady Kesterton 
had made to her before she went to school had dark- 
ened all the memories of her life. 

She had not seen Philip Winyates for more than four 
years. He used to come with Henry sometimes, but of 
late she had been told that he was too busy. The re- 
membrance of his kindness even was becoming a little 
vague. He still wrote to her on her birthday and on 
Christmas Day, but the letters had grown more and more 
formal and trivial. And sometimes he seemed to for- 
get that she was no longer a child, and used phrases 
about her school life and her amusements which made 
her smile, half with vexation, and half with a sense of 
the purely comic, as she read them. For although she 
was sixteen when he had seen her last, she had then 
been a wild, somewhat hoydenish, school-girl, younger 
than her years, and the change that had come over her 
since those days was great indeed. 

“ I thought,” she said, coming out of her brown-study 
at last, “ that it might be possible for me to give les- 
sons, and that some day we might live together. But, 
of course, dear, we can’t, if you stay at Kesterton.” 

“I’ll live just where you like, Elfie,” said the boy, 
with a sudden winning smile. But, she noticed that he 
was a little paler and graver than usual all the way 
home. 

“ Home ” they had fallen into the way of calling it, 
although it was only an ordinary little lodging-house ; 
but the woman who kept it was honest, clean and kindly, 
and a great friend of Mrs. Terry’s, with whom she often 
condoled on “ Mr. Henry’s” weakness and “ Miss Elfie’s” 
long absences from England. To Mrs. Terry’s credit 
be it spoken, she had never once confided to her friend 
10 


146 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


that there was any mystery attaching to the birth and 
parentage of the young Pastons. She spoke of them 
discreetly as “wards of Sir Anthony’s,” and had noth- 
ing but good words for his kindness and generosity. If 
Mrs. Jones scented something behind what she was told, 
it was not Mrs. Terry’s fault. 

As the little carriage drew up before the lodging- 
house door, Mrs. Terry, buxom as ever, with cap-strings 
flying and gray curls bobbing, flew out to meet her 
favorite. There was such unwonted excitement in her 
eye that Elfrida at once felt certain of some unexpected 
news. And indeed the news came bubbling out of her 
mouth before Henry could be moved. 

“ A visitor, my dears. Who do you think? No, not 
Mr. Winyates, my dear: but he’s coming by-and-by. 
It’s Mr. Watson, the lawyer, from the town — would you 
believe it? — come all the way to see you. Miss Elfle, 
dear, that he hasn’t seen for sornany a long day. I call 
that real kind of him.” 

The brother and sister glanced at each other. There 
was a slight apprehensiveness in Henry’s eyes, a kin- 
dling fire in those of Elfrida. It seemed probable to 
both of them that Mr. Watson’s visit was not so much 
inspired by mere friendly feeling as by the desires of 
Sir Anthony and Lady Kesterton. Elfrida was to be 
inspected, after her long absence and her many years 
of school. 

“ Did you say that Philip was coming too?” cried 
Henry. 

“ He’s at the hotel this very minute, my dear. He’s 
coming up presently. Biit Mr. Watson is in the sitting- 
room, and will have a cup of tea with you. So run up- 
stairs, Miss Elfle, and make yourself look nice” — in a 


brother aMd sister. 


147 


lower tone, “ I’ve put out a clean frock for you, and I’ll 
come up and brush your hair in a minute or two, when 
I’ve settled Master Henry on his couch.” 

Elfrida ran up-stairs obediently ; but there was a little 
smile of defiance on her face as she looked at the “ clean 
frock” which Terry had spread out for her upon the 
bed. “Why should I make myself ‘nice’ for Mr. Wat- 
son?” she was asking herself. “That he may take a 
report to Kestertoh guaranteeing me a suitable young 
person to go out govemessing, I suppose, and perhaps, 
as a great treat, to be invited to Kesterton Park. I 
think that my old cotton is quite in character; I don’t 
think I will change.” 

She stood before the looking-glass, eyeing the very 
pretty reflection that she saw therein with a certain 
disapproval. 

“ I’m afraid I have not the look of the ‘suitable young 
person,’ even in this old gown. If my hair were 
straighter, I should look more respectable, I think. 
What does it matter — ” 

Then her thoughts took a sudden flight in another 
direction. Did they not say Philip was coming after 
tea? Philip! After all, he had been the hero, the idol, 
of all her childish dreams. She made a little grimace 
as she thought, first of his last letter to her — it con- 
tained an allusion to her dolls, she remembered — and 
then of a book which he had written lately, a book 
which she had been assured was scholarly and thought- 
ful and everything else that a cultured man’s best book 
ought to be. “ He thinks I am a little girl still,” she 
said, “ and now that he is so learned I don’t suppose he 
will know the difference. ” But the remembrance that he 
was coming decided her to put on the clean white frock. 


148 


SIR ANTHg)NY’s SECRET. 


Even Mrs. Terry was satisfied with her appearance 
when the girl was ready to run down to the sitting-room, 
and called upon Elfrida to admire herself in the glass. 
But Elfie turned away with a pettish word, although 
there was a humorous smile upon her lips. 

“ How does it matter what I am like?” she said. “ I 
am only to be inspected and reported upon. Dear old 
Terry, the uglier I look the better!” 

“Not when it’s a gentleman come to see you,” said 
Terry, shrewdly. “If it was a lady I’d agree with you, 
miss; but you can’t be too pretty for a gentleman’s 
taste.” 

Elfrida laughed and went down-stairs. She was sin- 
gularly free from vanity or self-consciousness. She 
knew that she was what people called “pretty,” and 
more than this, that she ‘was striking and original in 
style; but she was disposed, in her graver moods, to 
look on beauty as a disadvantage to her, and, in her 
lighter ones, to depreciate her own good looks. From 
Mr. Watson’s involuntary start when she made her ap- 
pearance in the sitting-room, she gathered that the 
white frock was a success. But, although she did not 
know it, there was something besides beauty in her face 
which made Mr. Watson start; there was a strong and 
unmistakable likeness to some one else; and Mi. Wat- 
son did not think that a likeness of that kind would 
count in Elfrida ’s favor at Kesterton Park. 

The years that had passed over his head since the day 
when Sir Anthony interviewed him on his return from 
the Continent had touched Mr. Watson very lightly. 
He was almost white where he had been grizzled, but 
his face was as smooth and red, his small gray eyes as 
bright, as ever. His manner to Henry, whom he evi- 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


149 


dently knew well, was friendly without being familiar ; 
but to Elfrida he was quite alarmingly respectful : he 
bowed when she spoke to him, he got up, somewhat 
lumberingly, to open the door for her ; he picked up her 
work-basket when she dropped it, and in fact, conducted 
himself in such a deferential way as to set Elfrida’s 
sharp wits cogitating. 

“ I have never been treated with such respect in my 
life before,” she mused to herself as she sat in the bow- 
window, and busied herself after tea with a strip of silk 
embroidery; “ is there any reason for it? Am I a pos- 
sible heiress and lady in my own right, as I used to 
fancy when I was a silly child? Ah, no, it can’t be 
that ! Then it must be pure pity : pity for a friendless, 
penniless girl, who has got to work for a living; it is 
his way of showing sympathy, and I like him for it. 
Yes, I do, although it’s a little bit stupid and tactless 
of him to show it so much. But I think he is kind- 
hearted.” 

And she lifted her large, clear eyes with a look so 
full of liking and cordiality that Mr. Watson gave a 
little start, and made an observation to himself which 
Elfrida, if she had heard it, would not have understood. 
“ Oh, dear, no likeness, no likeness at all!” the old solic- 
itor murmured. “ I was mistaken ; she is not like any 
one I know.” But he was wrong: Elfrida was very 
like some one he knew, in feature and in coloring. It 
was the expression that differed so widely and dis- 
guised the real resemblance. 

Her look, and his own reflections, gave him the cour- 
age that he had hitherto been lacking. He coughed a 
little, and settled himself in his seat, crossing his legs 
and folding his arms in his most professional manner. 


StR ANtHONV^S S£CR£T. 


150 

“ I think, ” he said, “ that I had better not disguise 
from you. Miss Elfrida, the purport of my visit. I have 
come charged with a message which I will no longer 
delay.” The old gentleman’s tone became unusually 
pompous as he addressed himself to Elfrida ; the pom- 
posity was intended to cover a slight feeling of embar- 
rassment. “You are now, I believe, twenty years of 
age. You have had a — a superior education, one that 
qualifies you to — to shine in every society — ” 

“ Or to become a nursery governess at twenty pounds 
a year,” interpolated Elfrida briskly. Mr. Watson’s 
pause at that moment had been irresistible. 

“Eh?” said the lawyer, nonplussed for the moment. 
“ Oh, I beg your pardon. There should be no neces- 
sity^the fact is, my dear young lady, I come to you 
from Sir Anthony and Lady Kesterton. ” 

The girl’s delicate face suddenly hardened a little. 
She seemed about to speak; then she glanced at Henry, 
whose eyes were shining, whose lips smiled, in antici- 
pation of something interesting and pleasant. Elfrida 
looked down, her brows contracting; and held her 
tongue. 

“Sir Anthony and Lady Kesterton,” Mr. Watson 
went on, with a rather wary glance at his listeners, 
“ are sure, from what they have heard of you, that you 
have taken advantage of all your opportunities. They 
are very much pleased with the reports sent from time 
to time to them of your progress. Their only regret 
has been that they have not seen more of you. That 
loss, however, they now desire to repair.” 

“There! didn’t I say so?” said Henry, triumphantly. 

Elfrida smiled at him, and went on with her needle- 
work. 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


151 

They begged me, therefore, to request you to return 
with your brother in a fortnight’s time to Kesterton. 
Lady Kesterton hopes, I think, to induce you to remain 
there permanently — in — h’m — some capacity.” 

“ Nurse or scullery maid?” said Elfrida bitterly. She 
was quoting — although her hearers did not know it — 
from Lady Kesterton ’s own words to her when last they 
had met. “ I am very much obliged to Lady Kester- 
ton,” she went on, rising from her chair, and beginning 
to fold up her embroidery, “ but I think that I should 
prefer not to go to Kesterton in any capacity.” 

Mr. Watson began to protest, but before he could say 
more than a word or two the door opened, and Philip 
Winyates was admitted. 


CHAPTER XIV, 


A STRANGE PREJUDICE. 

He stood still for a minute, as if taken by surprise. 
He remembered Elfie as something of a hoyden, nat- 
urally graceful but awkward, as are all growing girls 
of fifteen, with short frocks and a great tail of black hair 
fastened by a ribbon, her hands generally gloveless and 
reddened by sea-water, her hats remarkable for the 
state of extreme dilapidation which they speedily 
attained. It was a pleasant enough sketch of a fresh, 
natural type, but not especially interesting to a man of 
Philip’s calibre. He came in suddenly now upon a 
very different picture. He saw a graceful, slender girl 
in a white dress, standing with the look of alert move^ 
ment still upon her, as if she had just risen from her 
chair, her curved red lips parted with words just ut- 
tered, her oval face still eloquent, her beautiful eyes 
lighted with scorn which was yet not unlovable, her well- 
poised head lightly thrown back, so that the soft long 
lines of her throat were visible in all their whiteness, 
and the cloud of dusky hair gathered up from her broad 
brow and graceful neck looked like a royal crown. It 
was a revelation seldom made of Elfrida’s greatest 
charms ; for in general her old frocks and the monotony 
of her daily life somewhat obscured the lines and color 
of her beauty ; but to see her as Philip saw her now, 
with the evening light enveloping her in its golden 

152 


A STRANGE PREJUDICE. 


153 


radiance, and the lustre of strong emotion in her eye, 
was to remember her forever as a rare vision of youth 
and loveliness. 

Philip made that one short pause, which seemed so 
little and which implied so much, and then came for- 
ward smiling and holding out his hand. 

“ This is Elfrida, I am sure! You have not forgotten 
me quite, I hope?” 

He had a qualm of doubt when he had said the words. 
She looked so regal, so unexpectedly mature, that he 
was not sure of his ground. And was she offended at 
his rudeness? 

“ No, indeed, I have not forgotten you. I am very 
glad to see you again. Did you travel down with Mr. 
Watson?” 

“Yes, we came together,” said Philip, as he nodded 
to Henry and gave a slight touch, half caressing and 
half playful, to his still golden and curling hair; “but 
I went to the hotel to order dinner, as I, at least, had 
had nothing substantial before I came away. If you 
have done your business, Watson” — with an inquiring 
glance — “ dinner will be ready at eight. ” 

“ I had but just begun,” said the lawyer rather ner- 
vously; “in fact, I had just delivered Lady Kesterton’s 
invitation — Lady Kesterton’s kind invitation — to our 
young friend here ; and I am afraid that she does not 
quite see what Lady Kesterton means.” His tone and 
look were a trifle dubious, and Philip saw that he hardly 
knew what line to take in so perplexing a situation. 

“I think I see what she means quite well,” said El- 
frida, smiling at Philip in a way that agreeably sug- 
gested comradeship. 

“ I don’t think you understand her, Elfie, really,” said 


*54 


SIR ANTHONY S SECRET. 


Henry, from his couch. Philip liked to see the way in 
which her face softened as she turned toward him. 

“ Don’t I, dear? Well, perhaps not. You must tell 
me what I am to think of her, by-and-bye — as you know 
her so well. ” 

Was there a little touch of sarcasm in the last words? 
Philip thought so, and was for the moment repelled. 
He did not like sarcasm in a woman — at least, he 
had never liked it in the vromen that he knew. In 
Elfrida Paston he acknowledged to himself that it 
might have a certain charm. 

“In the mean time,” said Philip, “perhaps you will 
forgive me if I take Mr. Watson to get his dinner. 
You can talk over the invitation while he is away, and 
if we may come back for a cup of tea or coffee — ” 

“There is no hurry about your answer,” interposed 
Mr. Watson rather quickly. “ I shall be here for a day 
or two, and shall, of course, see you again. ” 

“Oh, of course — many times, I hope,” said Elfrida 
brightly. “This evening again, for instance! We 
shall be delighted if you will come back for coffee.” 

“ Thank you. Miss Paston, but I will not return to- 
night, I think. I am very much obliged to you, Mr. 
Winyates, perhaps — ” 

“ I will come if I may,” said Philip, and then the two 
went away to their hotel, and Elfrida and her brother 
were left alone. 

The girl stood silent and thoughtful for a moment, 
then, observing a rather wistful and troubled look upon 
her brother’s face, she went toward him, sank down 
in a soft heap of white drapery beside his couch, and 
began to touch his forehead with her lips in tender, 
caressing kisses. 


A STRANGE PREJUDICE. 


155 


“ Don’t look at me like that, darling. I did not 
mean to vex yon about these Kesterton people. I know 
you like them — and, yes, they have been generous 
to us, and I ought not to be ungrateful, but I alwavs 
feel—” 

“ How do you feel, Elfie? I can’t understand.” 

“ I know you can’t, my poor old dear. Well, in spite 
of all I hear about them and of the way they spend 
money upon us, I never can help feeling as if they had 
done us some dreadful wrong. ” 

“Elfie, that is silly!” 

“ Perhaps it may be, but I can’t help it. I think 
there must be some foundation for it. In fact, if you 
only knew — but it is useless to talk about it. If they 
had but made us love them, Henry, it would be so 
much easier to do what they want us to do. ” 

“I never thought of whether I loved them or not,” 
said Henry wistfully. “ I think I do — Sir Anthony, at 
any rate. What are you shivering for, Elfie? And the 
children I am sure I love. You would Jove them, too, 
if you knew them as well as I do.” 

“-Lady Kesterton too?” 

“ Oh, poor Lady Kesterton — well, she is not strong, 
and you must make allowances for her, Elfie.” 

“ I think you are a perfect angel, Plarry. You never 
seem to think that anybody can be cold, or cruel, or 
unkind. ” 

“ People never are — -to me,” said the boy cheerfully. 
“ That is one of the ways in which being an invalid is 
made up to me, you know. Every one is good. Why, 
even Lady Kesterton, whom you dislike so much, sends 
me flowers and fruits and things when I am worse than 
usual, ” 


SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET. 


156 

“ Does she, dear? I’ll try to like her better if she is 
good to you. ” 

“Oh, yes, she is good! I have very happy times at 
Kesterton, and I want you to have them too. Gerald 
and Janey keep me amused for hours at a time. And 
then there’s Lady Betty — you don’t know her?” 

“ Lady Betty? No. Who is she?” 

“Lady Betty Stormont; Lord Beltane’s half-sister. 
Lady Beltane is a cousin of Lady Kesterton’s, you 
know!” 

“I remember her,” said Elfrida, slowly. She was 
sitting on the floor still, her face turned toward the 
window, but somehow the brightness had gone out of 
her face. “ Lady Beltane ! She was very fair — and 
beautiful.” 

“ She was beautiful once; I think she is too fat now,” 
said Henry, with the air of a connoisseur. “ But Lady 
Betty — ” 

“ Does Lady Beltane come often to Kesterton?” El- 
frida demanded abruptly. 

“ Yes, rather often. She is a great friend of Philip’s. 
She does not always bring her step-sister-in-law with 
her, you know. But when she does. Lady Betty finds 
her way to my room and we have a good time.” 

Elfrida began to smile. “ So there is really a Lady 
Betty. Do you remember the sketch you made of her 
and me? — all fuss and feathers, as we said at the time.” 

Henry laughed. “ That was the beginning of our 
friendship. She came in with J aney one day ; and we 
were very stilf and shy, you know; and little Janey, 
rummaging among the lower bookshelves, came upon 
one with a few loose leaves in it. One of these leaves 
was that picture, and J aney brought it to her to look at. 


A STRANGE PREJUDICE, 


157 


I saw her color up, and wondered what on earth it was. 
And then she burst out laughing, and showed it to me. 
Of course I told her how it was, and all about you, and 
she was awfully interested. She sat asking questions 
and talking about you nearly all the afternoon, And 
we have been great friends ever since. ” 

“How long ago is that, Harry?” 

“About two years, I think.” 

“ You never mentioned her in your letters.” 

Henry colored a little. “ I did not want to say much 
— you might have thought that she was like a sister to 
me; and nobody’s like my sister Elfie. ” 

“I’m glad you think so, dear. I’m not worth it, I 
fear. And is Lady Betty as old as Lady Beltane?” 

“ Oh, no ; she is not as old as I am : she is only 
seventeen.” 

“ Is she pretty?” 

“Lovely! As fair as — as — I don’t know what; as 
fair as a little child sometimes is, and with flaxen hair, 
like silk. And she has big blue eyes, and little dimples, 
just like a child. I should like you to see her, Elfie.” 

Strange to say, Elfie was immediately conscious of 
a desire, till then unknown, to go to Kesterton. It 
seemed to her as if this new acquaintance with the blue 
eyes and flaxen hair were usurping her sisterly place. If 
she did not interest herself in Henry’s life, in his house 
and his friends, would she not soon be less to him than 
the fair, dimpled Lady Betty? It was a very slight 
suggestion of jealousy, but it shook the girl’s resolution 
not to visit Kesterton Park again. 

“ Philip will be coming back soon, ” she said, rising 
^ from her lowly position. “ I must go and see about the 
coffee. How nice it looks out of doors!” 


SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET. 


“Perhaps Philip would take you out,” Henry sug- 
gested. “ I shall go to bed before long ; I am tired — 
unless you want me to sit up. ” 

“ No, dear, do just as you like.” And as she left the 
•room, she thought to herself, “ I surely don’t need to be 
chaperoned in Philip Winyates’s company — Mr. Win- 
yates, I suppose I must say. What a pity it is that we 
are growing old!” But her sigh was followed by a lit- 
tle smile. “He is really a very good-looking man,” 
she added. “ I did not remember that he had so nice 
a face.” 

And in truth, the last seven years had given a dig- 
nity to Philip’s face which it had not worn in its younger 
days. He wore a small, peaked beard, and this gave 
him something of the look of an old Vandyke portrait. 
His brown hair and eyes, broad forehead, long nose, 
and rather sunken temples, presented the type of the 
cavalier so well known to us on canvas. It wanted 
but the love-locks and the lace collar, and he would 
have passed excellently for a distinguished gentleman 
of King Charles’s train — a hopeless lover, perhaps, of 
Henrietta Maria — a gallant soldier who had devoted 
himself heart and soul to a losing cause. 

He came back and drank his coffee; and then did as 
Henry had expected him to do — offered to take Elfrida 
for a walk on the beach in the sweet dusk of the Sep- 
tember evening. Henry himself went to bed, and 
Elfrida went down with Philip to the sea. 

For some time they talked commonplaces; but at last 
Philip said rather abruptly: 

“ Forgive me for asking — but is it true, as Mr. Wat- 
son tells me, that you have a great objection to going to 
Kesferton?” 


A STRANGE PRRjUDlCfe. 


159 


“ It is quite true. I have a great objection.” 

He was suddenly aware that this Elfrida was no longer 
the child whom he used to coax and scold and instruct. 
She was a woman grown, with instincts and feelings to 
which he was a stranger. So much the more interest- 
ing. He had no clue to the workings of her mind, but 
he felt that there could be nothing ignoble, nothing act- 
ually reprehensible, behind the veil of those clear eyes 
and speaking features. What then was at the bottom 
of that refusal to go to Kesterton? 

“ It cannot be,” he said, with a half smile, “that you 
are shy — nervous — afraid of criticism — ” 

She drew herself up with a slightly haughty move- 
ment. “ Certainly not. ” Then, melting a little, she 
added with an answering smile, “ I don’t mean that I 
don’t deserve criticism. But I am not naturally shy. 
I am only nervous when I wish to please, and think I 
may fail.” 

' “ And you don’t wish to please at Kesterton? Well, of 
course, it is not for me to ask questions. Only you used 
to look upon me as a friend in the old days, and I felt 
anxious that you should make this visit. I know that 
Sir Anthony desires it, and I think you ought to go. ” 
“Yes, Sir Anthony is a friend of yours — a relation,” 
said Elfrida, meditatively. It seemed as if she drew 
some conclusion which she would not tell, and Philip’s 
curiosity was stirred again immediately. 

“ Has that anything to do with it?” he asked, after a 
moment’s pause. 

“ No — not directly, at any rate. I wonder, Mr. Win- 
yates, whether I may speak frankly to you and tell you 
exactly how I feel, as — as I used to do when I was quite 
a little girl!” 


i6o 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ I wisli you would. And may I say — you used not 
to call me Mr. Winyates when you were ‘quite a little 
girl.’ ” 

“ Ah, I am a big girl now — that makes all the differ- 
ence,” she said, smiling with a kind of wintry bright- 
ness which warned Philip that she was a child to be 
played with no longer. “ But I should like you to 
understand, and to tell me if you think I am doing 
wrong. ” 

“ I will do my best,” said Phil. 

Elfrida paused and looked straight out to sea, where 
the golden light of sunset had faded into the peaceful 
gray of eventide. The moon was rising in the heavens ; 
the sky was cloudless; the waves lapped over one 
another with a cool, refreshing sound. If there were 
confidences to be made, this was the time to make 
them. 

“ I said a word or two to Henry just now,” she said, 
“ but he was so hurt that I have decided to tell him 
nothing more. It is just this: I suppose I must be 
horribly ungrateful — and yet I have always hoped that 
I was capable of gratitude where — it was — deserved. ” 

“You mean,” Philip said gently, “that you cannot 
feel so much of it as you would like, to Sir Anthony 
Rest er ton?” 

“ Yes, that is it,” she answered quickly. “ I know it 
is base of me, but I can’t help it. I understand — and I 
suppose I am right — that Henry and I have no money 
of our own ; that Sir Anthony has kept us in his house, 
clothed and fed and educated us, out of — charity ; and 
I know I ought to be eternally grateful to him. Well, 
with my head I am grateful — not with my heart. ” 

“Very few people would have done as much as he has 


A STRANGE PREJUDICE. 


l6l 


done,” said Philip, rather lamely. He was looking 
quite away across the sea, and she could not see his face. 
“ And really — to Henry — ” 

“ Oh, yes, I think he has been kind to Henry, and I 
do sometimes feel inclined to thank him for that. But 
for myself — oh, I am grateful, in a sort of way, for my 
education — but — but I hate him all the time.” She 
broke off, between laughing and crying, and kept silence 
for a minute or two. “ I might have liked him better,” 
she added, “ if he had not always hated me.” 

“ No— no— ” 

“ But yes — ^yes. I am sure of it. And Lady Kester- 
ton hates me more than he does. When I was a naughty 
child, and did not want to go to school, she spoke to 
me in a way that I never shall forget. It was cruel — 
cruel ! If only I might write to them and thank them, 
and then they would let me go?” 

“ Have you any definite reason for this feeling to- 
ward them?” Philip asked. “ It is a strange prejudice.” 

She hesitated a little before she replied. 

“ My mother,” she said, hanging her head (for it was 
seldom she talked about her mother), “told me, before 
she died, that she forgave Sir Anthony. What she 
meant, of course, I could not tell ; but it did not seem 
as though he had been a very good friend to her. And 
then — then — ” Elfrida’s voice grew low — “ I saw him 
strike Henry.” 

“ But, my dear child” — the expression escaped him 
involuntarily — “ you surely cannot think that Henry’s 
present condition is owing to that blow?” 

“ I am afraid I do. And that is why I find it so hard 
to be grateful. If it is true, ” Elfrida went on, with 
changing color and hurrying voice, “ we need not won- 

II 


i 62 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


der that Sir Anthony has been generous to Henry, and 
of course I could not be left out in the cold altogether. 
Now do you understand?” 

“I think,” said Philip gravely, “that you entirely 
mistake Sir Anthony’s character and motives. And I 
say that if you harbor such views of a man who has, 
after all, been the greatest of benefactors to your brother 
and yourself, there is all the more reason for your com- 
ing to Kesterton Park and judging for yourself as to 
whether your childish impressions are false or true. I 
implore you to come, all the more because I now know 
what is in your mind. ” 

His earnestness made an impression upon Elfrida. 

“ If you think so,” she murmured. 

“ I do think so; I am certain of it. You will be act- 
ing wrongly, obstinately, if you refuse this invitation. 
I do not put it on the ground of expediency. Some 
would ask what you could do, where you could go, if 
you cast off the Kestertons’ help. I do not ask that. 
With your — your” — he stammered and cast a hurried 
glance at her — “ your advantages, your training abroad, 
and so on, you could easily provide for yourself. But 
I ask you to come in justice to Sir Anthony and his 
wife, and as a sign of love for your brother, who must 
still be dependent on their kindness.” 

She turned her face toward him, and he saw that the 
tears were in her eyes. “You have conquered,” she 
said, softly and sweetly. “ I see that you are right, 
and I will go. ” 

She held out her hand. He took it in his own and 
held it for a moment or two, experiencing a curi- 
ous pleasure in the clasp of those slender fingers, and 
was strangely sorry to let them go. 


CHAPTER XV. 


AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 

“ Well, Mr. Watson, and what is your report?” 

It was Lady Kesterton who asked the question. She 
was sitting in her boudoir— the room where she had 
once interviewed Elfrida, and where she now inter- 
viewed the family solicitor. It was a pretty room, and 
Mr. Watson, sitting rather upon the edge of a fragile 
chair, felt himself a little out of place in so elegant an 
abode. Two children, a boy and a girl, were gambol- 
ling on a rug at Lady Kesterton 's feet. 

“ Yes, Lady Kesterton, I saw the young lady ” per- 
son ” was the word that formed itself upon Lady Kester- 
ton’s lips, but she did not utter it aloud), and I thought 
her very — well, very pleasant, very lady-like, very 
charming.” Mr. Watson’s epithets were not perhaps 
of the most appropriate order. 

“ Good-looking?” asked the lady. 

I think I may say so. ' Good-looking, certainly.” 

Lady Kesterton made a mental note against Elfrida, 
and against Mr. Watson too. 

“She was very plain when I saw her last,” she re- 
marked. “ I suppose she was pleased enough to get the 
invitation 

Mr. Watson bungled. “ I am sure she must have felt 
it — an honor — a distinction.” 

163 


164 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ Did she say that she was pleased?” asked Lady Kes- 
terton calmly. 

“ Well, no, she did not make the remark exactly ; but 
her brother — her brother was delighted. ” 

“ It matters very little what that poor deformed, half- 
witted brother of hers says. I wish to know Miss Pas- 
ton’s attitude of mind. If she is not properly grate- 
ful, I shall consider that she must have a very bad 
disposition. ” 

“ I am sure she has not that,” said Mr. Watson, cau- 
tiously. “ But here, I think, is Sir Anthony. ” 

He rose from his chair and pushed it back as if anx- 
ious to take his departure, while Sir Anthony, in his 
dressing-gown, lounged unceremoniously into his wife’s 
boudoir, and seated himself near the small wood fire. 
The day was not cold, but Sir Anthony’s circulation 
was bad, and he was apt to feel chilly. He turned his 
face — yellow-white now, and somewhat peevish — to- 
ward the solicitor, surveyed him sharply out of his nar- 
row eyes, and fingered his long gray mustache as he 
spoke. 

“Well, Watson, back from your expedition, are you? 
What result?” 

“ There was only one result to be looked for,” said 
Lady Kesterton, sharply. “ Of course, the girl is only 
too glad to come.” 

Sir Anthony gave Mr. Watson a keen glance, and did 
not read confirmation of his wife’s statement in the old 
man’s rosy yet grizzled countenance. He laughed a/ 
little to himself, and Mr. Watson looked exceedingly ill 
at ease. 

“ Accepted gratefully, did she?” inquired the baro- 
net. “ I hardly expected so much grace from her. She 


AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 


165 

had a curious knack of flying into a rage when she was 
a child ; but perhaps she has learnt to govern her tem- 
per now — is more inclined to be humble and submissive, 
and say, ‘Thank you for all favors,’ eh, Watson? Is 
that the latest development?” 

Mr. Watson involuntarily shook his head. “I was 
there for two days only. Sir Anthony, and, of course, I 
could not form any definite idea as to Miss — Miss El- 
frida’s modes of thought. She seemed to me very 
charming and accomplished, and in every way worthy 
of the greatest good fortune. I think I must bid you 
good-morning. Lady Kesterton ; good-morning. Sir An- 
thony.” 

He escaped as quickly as possible, and only just 
missed hearing Lady Kesterton’s comment upon him 
as he closed the door. “ The man is a fool, or in his 
dotage,” she exclaimed. 

Sir Anthony again laughed softly to himself. “ He 
always was somewhat puzzle-headed, poor old Watson, 
and his wits do not grow sharper with age, He seems 
greatly taken with Elfrida Paston. ” 

“ It is to be hoped that she has not grown up idle 
and frivolous,” said Lady Kesterton severely. “For a 
girl who has to earn her own living — ” 

“Well?” asked Sir Anthony, his eyes twinkling as 
she paused. “ For a girl who has to earn her own liv- 
ing — what then?” 

“ She should be plain, and quiet, and discreet. From 
something in Mr. Watson’s manner, I fancy that she 
is fast or forward, or vain of her appearance.” 

“ She must not be vain of her appearance if she has 
to earn her living, certainly,” said Sir Anthony, laugh- 
ing rather oddly, his wife thought. “ She had better 


i66 


SIR ANTHONV’s SECRET. 


be Ugly, had she not? — like you, Janey,'*he added, lean^ 
ing forward to the little girl of sItl who sat playing qui- 
etly with her doll upon the rug. You have the sort of 
countenance for a young woman who earns her owti 
living, eh?” 

He was particularly fond of depreciating the looks 
and abilities of his two little children, much to Lady 
Kesterton’s annoyance. She herself was passionately 
attached to them, and thought them faultless, although 
it was quite true that neither of them could be called 
beautiful by the unprejudiced observer. They were 
not like the Kestertons. They had inherited their 
mother’s coloring. The boy, Gerald, was strong and 
sturdy, with lint-white locks and commonplace gray- 
blue eyes; while little Janey, his elder by a year, had 
the same fair hair and complexion, but with dark hazel 
eyes. She was more delicate-looking than her brother, 
and she had a refined, interesting little face, but it was 
not beautiful, and her father seemed to like to say so, 

“ I hope you will not talk in that way when Miss Pas- 
ton comes, Anthony,” said his wife, with much cold- 
ness. “ It is so unsuitable, to say the least of it. I hope 
that Miss Paston’s position and Janey ’s will be very 
different.” 

“Probably they will.” Sir Anthony’s clearly cut 
features, which had the color of old ivory or parchment, 
were set in a malicious smile which his wife thought 
very unpleasant, “ Different, indeed ! One, the daugh- 
ter of the house, with a fortune of her own and a capital 
social position ; the other, a mere nobody, a governess, 
perhaps, or dependent on charity for her daily bread.” 
He seemed to gloat over the picture that he drew. 
‘‘Precisely,” said Lady Kesterton, “That is quite 


After seven years. 167 

the state of the case. I don’t know why it should amuse 
you.” 

“Suppose,” said Sir Anthony, settling himself lazily 
in his chair, “ suppose the positions were reversed ; sup- 
pose it were Janey who had to earn her daily bread, 
and Elfrida to be the heiress — -what then?” 

“ I cannot suppose anything so absurd, Anthony — you 
do not mean to say that this girl — ” 

“ I mean to say nothing, my dear.” He laughed as 
he spoke. “ I was teasing you a little ; that was all. ” 
“I thought, perhaps,” said Lady Kesterton, with 
well-controlled impatience, “ that you had heard from 
Miss Paston’s friends, and that she was richer than you 
expected. Though even then I fail to see how Janefs 
prospects would be affected.” 

“ Janey ’s prospects are what they always were,” said 
Sir Anthony, “ and a good thing, too, for a girl with 
her plain little face, eh? Elfrida Paston’s friends 
have not communicated with me yet.” 

His wife meditated for a moment or two. “ Is there 
a chance of your hearing anything of that kind about 
her? Is it possible that she will have money some 
day?” 

Sir Anthony also meditated before he replied, and 
eyed his wife with a coolly calculating and rather 
malicious expression of countenance. “ You need not 
be afraid,” he said at last. “ She will never have any- 
thing but what she gets from us. Take your own way 
with her ; I dare say you can hold your own, even if she 
does make reprisals some fine day. ” 

“ I do not in the least know what you mean, Sir An- 
thony,” said Lady Kesterton, rising- from her chair 
with a look of displeasure. “ And I must say that I 


i68 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


think it very ill-bred'to talk in riddles. I shall treat 
Miss Paston properly, and I hope she will behave prop- 
erly to me. Her position in the house will be clearly 
defined, and I trust she will not be led into any danger 
of overstepping the lines. Come, children, it is time 
for you to go out. ” 

She* swept away with the same air of haughty dis- 
pleasure, which, however, seemed to amuse Sir Anthony 
immensely. He laughed quietly for some time when 
she had gone. “ It is a pity,” he said to himself^ “ that 
there is nobody to enjoy the joke with me. I hardly 
meant to keep it up so long. After all, nobody suffers 
by it. I shall outlive the boy, and it matters very little 
for a girl. When she marries, or when she is one-and- 
twenty, perhaps — if she pleases me — I will make things 
straight. In the mean time, it is amusing to see my 
lady’s manoeuvres, and I won’t let her go too far.” 

Sir Anthony was in the position of many men, who 
think that they can safely defy Fate, because they have 
no mortal disease and are not yet decrepit. He was a 
valetudinarian, it is true ; but he calculated on a lease 
of life sufficient to enable him to carry out his plans; 
and perhaps, after all, he was as likely as most people 
to attain it. 

The house was tolerably full of visitors, and others 
were expected on the day of Elfrida’s return with 
Henry and Philip. She had been so long away from 
Kesterton that two or three trifles which passed unno- 
ticed by her brother, and even by Mr. Winyates, im- 
pressed her unpleasantly. It was easy to account for 
the fact that the fly took them round to the garden door, 
for she knew that it was easier to carry Henry indoors 
by this entrance than by any other ; but she was (a lit- 


AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 


169 


tie unreasonably) surprised to find that no one stepped 
forward to receive them; that their arrival attracted 
rather less interest than that of a new servant in the 
house. She had not expected to be welcomed by Sir 
Anthony or Lady Kesterton, but she had expected a 
little of the attention to which she had been for some 
years tolerably well accustomed, and a smiling house- 
keeper, or a willing house-maid would have been better 
than nobody. But Terry and the flyman had to carry 
the boxes up-stairs, and Philip helped to settle Henry 
comfortably upon his couch ; and nobody appeared to 
help them. The day was wet and cold, but no fire had 
been lighted in the grate, and there were no signs of 
a meal. Mrs. Terry bustled about and began to put 
things in order ; she seemed accustomed to waiting on 
herself and on Henry also, but Elfrida felt that the 
“home-coming,” as Henry had cheerfully termed it, 
was decidedly chilly. The old parlor too looked very 
plain and shabby and comfortless to her eyes ; the fur- 
niture was really in the last stage of dilapidation, and 
the few attempts at decoration were deplorably ugly. 
Elfrida turned to the window, but the view that used 
to be beautiful was obscured by driving rain and storm- 
clouds, and she looked only on a scene of dripping and 
misty desolation. 

Henry had been wheeled into his room for a quiet 
rest before tea, and Elfrida still stood at the window 
when Philip came back into the parlor. At the sight 
of her motionless figure, the face turned resolutely to 
the Park, the hands hanging at her sides, he suddenly 
realized some of the girl’s feelings. He paused for a 
moment, then took a step toward the window. “I am 
afraid you find it cold and uncomfortable, “ he said. 


170 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


She turned to him with a bright smile, but her eyes 
were full of tears. “ Oh, you don’t think I mind that?” 
she said. “ It was of Henry I was thinking — he is so 
easily contented that it is a shame if he has not every- 
thing pleasant and nice about him.” 

“ But I hope he is comfortable, generally,” said Phil, 
with a touch of something like shame. “ They cannot 
have known at what time to expect us, or they would 
have had things ready. I will ring and — ” 

“ No, pray do not,” she interposed, somewhat eagerly. 
“ Dear old Terry will have everything ready in a few 
minutes. I will go and help her; I don’t know why I 
am idling here. Don’t let us keep you. I dare say 
you want to go to your own room, or down-stairs to tea. 
You see, I begin to remember the customs of the 
house.” 

“ I will stay and have tea with you, if you will let me. ” 

“No — no; you will be wanted.” 

“ I am at nobody’s beck and call : I am my own masT 
ter. Let me stay, Elfie. ” 

His voice sank to a tone of tenderness which was not 
altogether new to her. She had heard it several times 
during the last fortnight. It always fluttered her a 
little; she did not know whether to like it or not. 
Offended by it she could not possibly be. And in that 
moment of vague pain and humiliation it was sweet to 
her — sweet, also, the touch of his hand upon hers, the 
admiring gentleness with which his eyes rested upon 
her face. 

“ Stay, then,” she said, with a little smile and a soft 
blush which made her lovelier than ever in his eyes ; 
“but it is for Henry’s sake, not for mine.” 

For whose sake soever, Philip found it very pleasant 


AFTER Seven years. 


171 


to linger in the glow of the newly lighted fire, while 
Elfie went to and fro between the sitting-room and her 
own apartment, the door of which was in the passage 
opposite the baize door that led into the picture- 
gallery. 

Henry’s rest was soon over, and he was wheeled back 
into the parlor when tea was ready. And then came a 
really merry little tea-part^^ Elfrida had quite recov- 
ered her spirits, and was kneeling before the fire toast- 
ing tea-cakes for Henry and Philip, the firelight dancing 
on her flushed cheeks and brilliant eyes, when a solemn 
knock came to the parlor door. And no sooner had she 
called out “ Come in!” than a footman in very gorgeous 
array made his appearance with a solemn message. 

“ Lady Kesterton’s compliments to Mr. Winyates, and 
tea is being served in the white droin’-room. And 
Lady Kesterton would be obliged to Miss Paston if she 
would go to her ladyship’s boudore at ’alf-past five 
precisely. ” 

Then he solemnly bowed and withdrew, leaving 
silence and something like dismay behind him. Philip 
muttered a word or two which Elfrida divined to have 
an objurgatory significance, but did not stir. Even 
Henry looked puzzled and vexed. Elfie was the first 
to recover herself. She burst into a merry, careless 
laugh. 

“Go away, Mr. Winyates,” she said. “You are not 
in your proper sphere. We may toast tea-cakes up here, 
and I am sure you daren’t do that in the drawing-room, 
where you belong. Good-by. I shall see you again 
some time if I survive the interview in Lady Kester- 
ton’s boudoir.” 

“I am not going,” said Philip calmly. “She does 


172 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


not really want me — and if she does, she must do with- 
out me. My heart is set on those tea-cakes.” 

She laughed and resumed her toasting operations. 
But Henry still looked troubled. 

“ Perhaps there is somebody in the drawing-room that 
she wants you to meet, Phil. We can see you another 
day. You know, Elfie, you don’t properly appreciate 
Phil’s grandeur nowadays— =•” 

She turned and gave Mr. Winyates a glance that 
thrilled that gentleman to the tips of his fingers in a very 
curious manner. It was half mocking, half tender, a 
little inquiring and a little affectionate; altogether 
somewhat coquettish. Possibly it put the final touch 
to work that was already begun; certainly it made 
Philip feel as if wild horses would not drag him away 
from the parlor in the west wing that afternoon. And 
Henry, with a pucker of unusual anxiety between his 
brows, went on — 

“ Since he has written books, he has become quite a 
literary lion, I can tell you! When he goes up to Lon- 
don, he is out to grand parties every night, and people 
can’t make too much of him ; no wonder Lady Kester- 
ton wants him down-stairs. Phil, hadn’t you better go?” 

“ Don’t worry yourself, old chap. No, there’s no 
necessity. I am not Lady Kesterton’s lapdog, nor even 
her tame cat about the house. I shall e’en take the 
liberty of pleasing myself. ” 

“ If you do that, you will please us too,” said Elfrida, 
as she put one of the cakes upon his plate. “ But look 
at the time, somebody, and don’t let me be too late 
for my appointment. . Does Lady Kesterton want to 
examine me on my attainments, I wonder” — with a 
droll look — “or to offer me a post about her person?” 


AFTER SEVEN YEARS. 


173 


“ She will do neither if you approach her in that frivr 
olous spirit, ” said Philip, laughing. “ Have you no awe 
and reverence about you, Elfrida?” 

She shook her head. “ Don’t keep them in stock, or 
used them up long ago; I’m not sure which. But 
I’m a very good actress; 1 shall play my part well 
enough.” 

“ I know you will say and do just the right thing,” 
said Henry, looking at her admiringly. 

“ The right thing will be to be grateful for all hef 
kindness, I suppose,” said Elfrida, mimicking Lady 
Kesterton’s tones so closely for a moment that Philip, 
who knew that she had spoken to Sir Anthony’s wife at 
most two or three times, looked up surprised. Perhaps 
Elfrida mistook his surprise for another kind of feeling, 
for she suddenly changed her tone. I am a wretch,” 
she said, smoothing back her rather disordered hair, 
” and I don’t mean what I say a bit. It’s only naught 
tiness. Honestly and truly” — with a grave and rather 
sweet look — “ I am grateful to Sir Anthony and Lady 
Kesterton for all that they have done for us. And I 
shall try to say so if I can.” 

“ That’s right, Elfie; I’m glad of that,” said Henry 
simply. 

She stooped to kiss him. “ It is nearly half-past five. 
I must go. I wonder if I know the way!” 

“ I will go with yoii to the end of the picture-gallery, 
and show you which turn to take,” said Philip. “ Yes, 
it is time now. ” 

She nodded gayly to Henry, and smiled at Philip in 
reply. “ Come, then. ” And together they walked down 
the long dim gallery, where the pictured forms upon the 
walls gleamed at them like fantastic ghosts. At the 


174 


SiR Anthony’s secret, 


further door, Philip showed her the turning- that led to 
Lady Kesterton’s boudoir. 

“ Wish me good luck,” she said, lingering a little, and 
putting out her hand as if to say good-by. He took it 
in both his own. 

“ I do — most heartily. How cold your hand is, dear !” 

“I am so fnghtened,” she said, laughing rather 
nervously. “You wouldn’t think it, but I am. If 
there is a person in the world of whom I am terribly 
afraid it is Lady Kesterton. ” 

She drew her hand away, smiled again as if to reas- 
sure him, and then sped lightly and swiftly in the 
direction of Lady Kesterton’s boudoir. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


elfrida’s vocation. 

“You are two minutes late/' said Lady Kesterton, 
when she had extended her hand and given Elfrida the 
tips of two fingers for a moment. “ I hope you are not 
in the habit of being unpunctual.” 

“No, I don’t think I am,” said Elfrida, quite clearly 
and simply, “but of course it will happen sometimes.” 

Lady Kesterton looked at her and did not speak. 
Another lady who was sitting in the great lounging^ 
chair by the fireplace put up a long-handled double eye- 
glass and also looked. The movement attracted El- 
frida’s attention, which hitherto had been concentrated 
upon Lady Kesterton. She now glanced at the lady 
in the easy-chair. 

Who was it? The face was vaguely familiar, and yet 
she knew no one with those swelling lines and contours, 
those superincumbent layers of fair white flesh, that 
face which had once been beautiful, but where now the 
beauty was half lost in positive fat. And yet that crown 
of elaborately dressed golden hair, the glance of the 
cold, smiling eyes — 

Yes, she knew it now. It was Lady Beltane, the 
woman who, the servants had said, would one day be 
the ruin of Philip Winyates — who would not rest until 
she had broken Philip Winyates ’s heart. The remem- 
brance sent a cold shudder of something like disgust 

175 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


176 

down the girl’s spine. It suddenly seemed to her as if 
she had come to a house full of enemies ; and she was 
nearer the truth than she knew. 

“Won’t you sit down?’’ said Lady Kesterton, dryl)^ 
She herself took a seat on the sofa, and Elfrida selected 
a plain high-backed chair for herself. The woman with 
the eye-glass was still surveying her. The hanging- 
lamp in the middle of the room had been lighted, and 
its rays fell full upon Elfrida’s haughtily lifted head, 
her fine, spirited face, the slender figure in its well-fit- 
ting tweed gown. Elfrida had seldom looked better, 
though she was not aware of the fact. “ I hope you 
had a pleasant time at Seaford,” continued Lady Kes- 
terton. 

“Yes, thank you, a very pleasant time.” 

“ Were you sorry to leave Madame Leroy’s?” 

“ For some things ; but I began to feel it was time I 
did something for myself, and relieved you and Sir 
Anthony of a great burden. ” 

Elfrida had a prompt, decisive way of speaking which 
her listeners did not approve. Lady Kesterton answered 
coldly, “ Exactly, I think it is time. I am glad you are 
so sensible. I have already formed a plan which will 
probably meet with your — your — approval.” The word 
sounded satirical from Lady Kesterton ’s lips. 

“Thank you, I hope so,” said Elfrida. Which was 
not what she was expected to say at all. 

“ My plan,” Lady Kesterton went on, as if unheeding 
that remark, “ is one which I have carefully considered, 
and which is likely to be satisfactory in every way. 
You have been well educated, Miss Paston, and have, I 
hope, profited by your advantages. Of course, you 
ought to speak French or German like a native. My 


elfrida’s vocation. 


177 


friend, Lady Beltane” — she turned round to the splendid 
woman in the easy-chair ; yes, she was splendid in her 
way, in the magnificent raiment of blue-green silk and 
plush which she called a tea-gown, with that gleaming 
coronet of golden hair — “ has been a great deal abroad ; 
you will not object to having a little conversation with 
her in French or German. We wish very much to hear 
your accent. ” 

Elfrida knew well enough that she could not refuse 
or resent the-request, but there was something restive 
in her which made her blood boil at the sound of Lady 
Kesterton’s speech. Nevertheless, she answered cour- 
teously and quietly that she would do as Lady Kesterton 
desired, and immediately turned her face toward Lady 
Beltane and awaited the opening of the conversation. 

Lady Beltane smiled a little, and looked at her with 
sleepy scrutiny. Then she began to ask questions in 
German about Elfrida ’s fortnight at Seaford. Elfrida 
answered accurately, although with reluctance. She 
seized almost immediately on the central motive of 
Lady Beltane’s questions, which was, to ascertain how 
much time Philip Winyates had passed at Seaford, and 
on what terms of intimacy he stood with Elfrida her- 
self. When she had got to know all that Elfrida would 
tell her, she smiled and glided gently into French. 
Lady Kesterton had not studied German. In French, 
Lady Beltane talked about Madame Craven’s books, 
and the singing lessons that Elfrida had taken in Paris. 
And in a minute or two she ceased to talk, gave Lady 
Kesterton a little nod, and took up a novel that was 
lying by her chair. But although she ceased to talk, 
she kept eyeing Elfrida over the pages of her book with 
somewhat an excess of attention. 


12 


178 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ Shall I sing to you too?” asked Elfrida, prepared to 
be amiable. 

“No, thank you, singing will not be required, ” said 
Lady Kesterton. “ No doubt you can play a little? 
Yes? Well, you wish to find a situation. Your great 
drawback is that you have no experience in teaching. 
I propose to you to acquire that experience in my house. 
My two children are in want of a governess — a nursery 
governess, of course, but one who can talk French and 
German to them; I offer you the post. When they 
require you no longer, you will be doubly valuable on 
account of the experience you will have gained and 
the recommendation that I should be able to' give 
you.” 

Elfrida’ s cheek burned. If she had not resolved to 
be very wise and prudent, she would have rejected the 
proposal on the spot. For her old dislike of Lady Kes^ 
terton was upon her in full force. She not only dis- 
liked, but she distrusted and was afraid of her. What 
should she say? There was a moment’s pause ; and of 
the two who awaited her answer the one who felt the 
most real curiosity was Lady Beltane. Would this girl, 
who looked like a princess, condescend to be a little 
nursery governess under Lady Kesterton? If she did, 
then Lady Beltane would know what to think. 

“I need hardly mention,” Lady Kesterton went on, 
“ that in this manner you will be able to see something 
of your brother, which, of course, under other circum- 
stances you would be unable to do. When the children 
had gone to their nurses after tea, you would be able to 
sit with him in an evening, and to spend other portions 
of the day in his room. I should also pay you a certain 
sum every quarter for your dress and personal require- 


elfrida's vocation. 


170 

ments — twenty-five pounds a year is usually considered 
ample for a young person in your position. ” 

The latter part of this speech might have irritated 
Elfrida, if her mind had not been taken up with the 
thoughts of Henry. Yes, it would indeed be delightful 
to spend so much time with him. That consideration 
carried the day against all objections. 

“ Thank you, Lady Kesterton, I shall be very pleased 
to try,” she said, and at that very moment Lady Bel- 
tane’s book fell to the ground with a crash, almost as 
though she had pushed it from her with a gesture of 
impatience. 

“ Very well. Then you can begin to-morrow — or the 
day after, perhaps, so as to give you a day to unpack 
and get settled. You can keep your old bedroom in the 
west wing. I will arrange to-morrow about hours and 
so on. You will not have a great deal to do — only we 
want you in the evening sometimes to accompany a 
song or play dance-music in the drawing-room. You 
will not object to that?” 

“ Not at all.” 

“ And one thing I must say — and I had better say at 
once. I trust that your brother’s sitting-room in the 
west wing will not be made a rendezvous for idle peo- 
ple — especially for idle men in the house. You must 
put a stop to that yourself. One or two gentlemen have 
sometimes kmdly gone to see the poor youth, but you 
will understand that will be unadvisable when you are 
there.” 

Elfrida looked at her without answering. 

“ I was very much shocked, for instance, to find that 
you had kept Mr. Winyates to tea to-night,” said her 
ladyship severely. “ I sent him a message ; but I pre- 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


i8o 

sume that you did not allow him to take advantage of it. 
Another time, I trust that that will not occur. ” 

“ I will remember what you wish,” said Elfrida, with 
something of her brother’s quiet simplicity. 

“And I think that is all,” said Lady Kesterton 
majestically. 

“Not all for me,” said Elfrida, rising from her seat 
with a slight tremulousness of voice and limb, proceed- 
ing from the consciousness of effort. “ I have some- 
thing to say, please, before I go. I wish to thank you — 
and Sir Anthony — for your great generosity. I owe my 
education to you. But that is not all. It is more to 
me that you have taken care of Henry — who will never 
be able to do anything in return— that you have made 
his life as easy as it can be made. I thank you for 
that — oh, a thousand times ! And if I can do anything 
for you or yours, it shall be done. I owe you and Sir 
Anthony the best gratitude of my heart.” 

“I am glad that you have so much right feeling,” 
said Lady Kesterton, with considerable grimness. 
“And I hope that you will do your work conscien- 
tiously. Perhaps your brother may be wanting you, so 
I will say good-night.” 

She was slightly propitiated in Elfrida’s favor, in 
spite of her grimness of manner ; but she did not think 
it well to encourage familiarity by offering her hand. 
So the girl made a graceful half-foreign little courtesy 
to her, and then to Lady Beltane, and went away from 
the boudoir feeling heartily thankful that the interview 
was over. 

As soon as she was gone. Lady Beltane rose to an 
erect position in her chair, and spoke with shining 
eyes. 


elfrida’s vocation. 


i8i 


“ You will repent taking that girl into the house, Eva. 
She is a dangerous young person. ” 

“ Dangerous?” said Lady Kesterton doubtfully. “ She 
spoke very properly.” 

“ Oh, we can all speak properly when we choose, ” said 
Lady Beltane, with a short little laugh. “Don’t you 
know why she accepted your offer? And, good heav- 
ens ! why did you ifiake it before you had consulted me 
again? She told me two or three things when I talked 
to her in German — things I wanted to know.” 

“What sort of things, Beatrice?” 

“Oh, details about the fortnight at Seaford!” Beat- 
rice drummed impatiently with her hand on the arm of 
the chair. “ Did you know — I certainly did not — that 
Philip was there all the time? Of course you told me 
he was going down with old Watson to see if she was 
presentable, and so on ; but you did not think that he 
would stay a fortnight, did you?” 

“I never trouble myself about Philip’s doings,” said 
Lady Kesterton coldly. “He comes and goes as he 
pleases. I wish he would take up his abode elsewhere, 
but he seems necessary to Anthony. Did you ask her 
then whether he was there?” 

“I am not such a fool,” said her cousin petulantly. 
“ I only made her talk. Mr. Winyates had taken her 
out boating, walking, driving. What they did with 
that crippled boy meanwhile I am sure I do not know. 
But Miss Paston’s amusement had evidently depended 
on Philip ; and it is because he is here, no doubt, that 
she consented to stay. ” 

“ But, my dear Beatrice, Philip would never marry 
a nobody like that girl Paston. . . . Indeed, he does 
not seem inclined to marry at all. I wish he did. ” 


i82 


SIR Anthony's Secret. 


“ Who talked of marrying? There may be flirtation 
and scandal without that. " 

“ If there is the faintest breath of scandal, the girl 
goes out of my door at a moment’s notice. We have 
had enough of that in the family.” 

“You will have to reckon with Sir Anthony before 
you turn that girl out of doors,” said Beatrice, crossing 
her large, round white arms behind the golden head — 
a favorite attitude with her. “You know that very 
well. You should embroil him with her if you want 
to get rid of her. But, far from wanting to do that, 
you have taken the best means in the world for securing 
her,” 

“ I wish, Beatrice, you would not make unpleasant 
allusions to forgotten gossip. It does not concern Sir 
Anthony at all — my choice of a nursery governess. 
Please do not connect the names." 

Beatrice laughed softly. “ I won’t — as you dislike 
it, ” she said. “ But that girl will make mischief, and 
be troublesome — you will see. She Is too good-looking 
not to attract notice.” 

“Do you think her good-looking? I don’t see any- 
thing to admire in her.” 

“ Men will, my dear. And, really, she has a graceful 
figure. She makes one feel old and unwieldy.” And 
Lady Beltane rose slowly from her chair, and proceeded 
to examine herself critically in a long panel of look- 
ing-glass. “My complexion is not what it was,” she 
said ; “ it wants tinting now and then ; and I am much 
too fat to look well by the side of her: but in other re- 
spects, I can still claim to be called a handsome woman ; 
don’t you think so, Eva?” 

“Certainly I do — if you think it matters at your 


elfrida’s vocation. 


183 


age,” said Lady Kesterton, in an acid tone. The 
remark would have made some women angry, but 
Beatrice only laughed. She was not of an irritable 
disposition, and her cousin’s sour primness of tone 
merely amused her. 

Meanwhile, Elfrida had flown back to the west wing, 
and found Philip still with her brother. They greeted 
her return with eager interest and curiosity, and in a 
few eager sentences she poured out her tale. But it 
produced a different effect from any she had antici- 
pated. Philip looked aghast, and seriously annoyed: 
Plenry glanced at him, and in his turn seemed doubtful. 

“Why, don’t you like the plan?” said Elfrida, sud- 
denly catching herself up and glancing from one to the 
other, “ Of course, it may not be pleasant in all re- 
spects, but I shall now be able to stay near Henry with 
a clear conscience. I could not have gone on living in 
the house in idleness, you know ; and I think it is really 
a good plan for me to get some experience before I go 
out into the world.” 

‘‘Shall you really like it, Elfle?” asked Henry; and 
there was something in his look and in his voice which 
startled his sister into the conviction that, in spite of 
his cheerfulness, he was not altogether blind to the dis- 
advantages even of his own life at Kesterton. 

“ But it is too ridiculous to think of your turning nur- 
sery governess at all!” cried Philip. “With your tal- 
ents — your accomplishments! Lady Kesterton is a 
good manager, I must say, but surely she has tried too 
high a flight this time. It is a complete waste of time 
for you. ” 

“ So you do not want to keep me here?” said Elfrida, 
with an arch turn of her neck. '‘Ah, well! it doesn’t 


184 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


matter, for I am not to see much more of you, Mr. Win- 
yates. Lady Kesterton does not approve of your being 
here. I am not to toast tea-cakes for you again. So 
you are warned!” 

What a child she was still, sometimes ! There was 
not a trace of consciousness in her manner; it was 
touched only with girlish mischief and amusement. 
But it was just the manner that, in a beautiful girl, 
provokes a man to wish he could change it to earnest- 
ness — could rouse the dormant passion underneath that 
smiling exterior, and make the clear placid eyes grow 
dim and deep with emotion. It was thus that Philip 
felt as he looked at her. Then he came to himself with 
a violent little shock. How divided he was from her ! 
But not, as Lady Kesterton would have thought, by any 
sense of social indifference ; but by age, character, and, 
above all, by certain invisible fetters which Philip had 
forged for himself long ago, and strong as they were 
invisible. These, he said to himself, with sudden and 
irrepressible bitterness, were likely to keep him prisoner 
for at any rate the best years of his life. 

“ I am afraid I shall take my own way until you tell 
me to go,” he said, smiling at her kindly — the spasm 
of longing, regret and pain carefully concealed. 

But just then he could not stay much longer, for he 
had letters to write before the post went out, and so he 
bade the brother and sister good-night. He went down 
to dinner at the usual hour with a feeling of profound 
annoyance at his heart. He thought of Elfrida sitting 
with Henry in the shabby parlor up-stairs — or sitting 
alone when Henry had gone to bed — lonely, silent, 
possibly sad ; and he fretted against the conventional 
laws which set him down at a richly furnished table, 


elfrida’s vocation. 


185 

gay with flowers and light and silver, at the side of a 
fashionable woman in grand array, while she — she whom 
he could almost have said he loved already — sat apart 
because she was only a nursery governess. Was she 
not beautiful, good, clever, as any woman of them all? 
True, her mother had been of lowly position in the 
world, but Sir Anthony had said that there was no 
stain upon Elfrida’s birth. Why should she not be 
treated like any other young lady in the house? 

“You look quite melancholy,” Lady Beltane said in 
his ear. He had taken her in to dinner that evening, 
as there was some one present of more social impor- 
tance to whom Sir Anthony had given his arm. “ Any- 
thing wrong?” 

“Nothing, thank you,” he answered courteously, but 
with a touch of weariness in his tone. 

“ Where were you at tea-time? We heard you had 
arrived, but you were nowhere to be found.” 

“ Lady Kesterton knew, for she sent me a message. 
I was in the west wing having tea with Miss Paston and 
her brother. ” 

“ She is a handsome girl — too handsome for her posi- 
tion,” said Lady Beltane lazily. “But I hope you 
don’t mean to get up a flirtation with her on that 
account. ” 

“7 get up a flirtation? Is it likely?” said Philip. 
Then, after a moment’s pause, “ It would have seemed 
to me kinder if Lady Kesterton, or yourself, had made 
some little effort to welcome Miss Paston on her arrival 
this afternoon. Nobody took the slightest notice of her 
coming. All the more reason, under those circum- 
stances, for me ta remain for a short time and try to 
make her forget how unwelcome she seemed to be. ” 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 

“You were always a Don Quixote, Philip. But 1 
don’t quarrel with you on that account. I think it ex- 
tremely sweet of you to be so kind.” 

“ Do you?” he said, laughing. “ But you know you 
might have saved me the necessity if you had liked!” 

“There is no reason why you should not be kind/’ 
she said, almost in a whisper. “ I can trust you. ” 

But the whisper made Philip wince. 


CHAPTER XVIL 


LADY Betty’s young man. 

Elfrida was summoned by a solemn message from 
Lady Kesterton to the school-room on the following 
morning and instructed as to the duties that would be 
required of her. They were not very onerous, as the 
children were not old enough to be emancipated from 
nursery management, and she was not asked to concern 
herself in any way with their toilet, or with their meals — 
except dinner, which she was to superintend. 

“ You can breakfast and have tea and supper with your 
brother, you know: that will be pleasant for you both,” 
said Lady Kesterton, “ and the nurse will take the chil- 
dren out in the afternoon, although you can go with 
them into the Park for an hour every morning ; but I 
don’t wish them to be overtired with lessons. There 
are a few little things you can do for me in your spare 
time — notes to write, and so on. And I hope you mean 
to keep up your studies ; it will never do to waste your 
time. I should advise you to read for some examina- 
tion ; people think so much more of certificated teachers 
nowadays,” 

Elfrida felt as if she were undergoing a cold douche. 
Her only comfort lay in making acquaintance with the 
children. She was naturally fond of children, and won 
Janey’s heart at once. 

Gerald was a little harder to attract, for he was a 
i87 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


1 88 

spoilt child, and his nurse had been bemoaning his fate 
in having to submit to a governess. Hence his first 
interview with Elfrida was not reassuring. 

Lady Kester ton’s softer side showed itself in her love 
fur her boy. She sat in a low chair in the cheerful lit- 
tle room that she meant to make into a school-room, and 
caressed him gently while he hid his face in her lap 
and refused to look at the stranger. Elfie, with one 
arm round Janey, who clung to her affectionately 
almost at once, was on her knees trying to attract his 
attention with a picture-book which Henry had bought. 

“ I see a picture of a tiger and an elephant,” she was 
telling him, “ and a puff -puff. Aren’t you going to 
look at the puff -puff with me?” 

Master Gerald kicked out his fat legs at her and half 
turned his face so as to speak comfortably. 

“ I don’t like you — I won’t look!” 

“ Won’t you look, Gerald?” said his mother fondly. 
“ See the nice pictures Miss Paston is showing you 1 
You like pictures, you know!” 

“Yes, I like pictures, but I don’t like said the 
youthful Kesterton. “And I’m not going to do lessons 
with her. ” 

“ Oh, yes, Gerald must be good and do his lessons ; 
and then Miss Paston will be kind to him and tell him 
pretty stories, and — ” 

“ Don’t want her old stories ! She isn’t a lady — nurse 
says so — and she shan’t teach me,” said this inconven- 
iently indiscreet young gentleman. 

“Gerald, Gerald! — ” his mother was beginning, but 
she stopped short, for another figure had appeared 
upon the scene, and another voice made itself heard. 

“What’s this? What’s this? Oh, it is you, is it?” 


LADY BETTY'S YOUNG MAN. 189 

and Sir Anthony offered his hand to Elfrida in a limp, 
objectless kind of way. 

Elfrida, rather glad of the interruption, had sprung 
to her feet ; and Lady Kesterton also took the oppor- 
tunity of rising. She moved away to some book-shelves, 
and Gerald was deprived of his support, but not at all 
fearful of the consequences of his impertinence. He 
stood on the hearth-rug surveying the tall figures of his 
father and his governess with baby insolence. 

The sight of Sir Anthony, stooping in his gait, with 
gray mustache and yellowed complexion, was some- 
thing of a shock to Elfrida. Her own dislike of him 
softened a little, and she returned his greeting with a 
grave smile and deference of manner which certainly 
differed very widely from the demeanor of her earlier 
youth. 

Sir Anthony may have noticed the change or he may 
not; he was not a man whose moods were easy to 
fathom. After one careless yet scrutinizing glance, he 
turned to his little son with a terrific frown. 

“What was that I heard you saying, sir? Some 
impertinence to Miss Paston? Have the goodness to 
behave yourself, or you’ll be sorry for it some day.” 

“Don’t be so violent. Sir Anthony,” said his wife, 
half turning round. “ He meant no harm. ” 

And the child, emboldened by her defence, frowned 
as his father did, and muttered over again what he had 
said before. 

“She shan’t teach me: nurse says — ” 

“ You impudent little beggar! Do you dare to tell me 
what your nurse says!” ejaculated Sir Anthony. 

And he lifted his hand with a gesture so full of wrath 
that it suddenly brought back to Elfrida ’s mind the 


190 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


memory of another day when he had struck a child and 
had (she fully believed it) crippled him for life. 

She forgot where she was and in whose presence she 
was speaking. She flung herself between the father 
and the child, 

“ Oh, don’t strike him !” she cried, and then was dumb, 
quivering all over and very much aghast at her own 
audacity. 

There was a moment’s silence. Sir Anthony’s face 
grew rigid and tense as he stared at her. He, too, 
remembered the scene of which she had been a witness ; 
he knew the allusion that she made. Hitherto it had 
seemed to him possible that she did not remernber it, 
/but now there was no more doubt possible on that score. 
His hand dropped to his side ; he turned round, and 
limply, passively, as it were, stumbled from the room. 

Really^ Miss Paston!” said Lady Kesterton, in a tone 
of scathing indignation. 

I beg your pardon,” Elfrida murmured, with flush- 
ing cheeks, “ I did npt mean — ” 

“ I do not know what you meant ^ but your manner was 
7nost unsuitable. I hope and trust that for the future 
you will remember the respect that you owe to your 
employers — your master and mistress, to put the fact 
into plain terms. If ever I see such manifestation 
again — however, I do not wish to discuss it, especially 
before the children. We must remember that we have 
a duty to them^ Miss Paston, as well as to ourselves. 
One expects some self-control, some courtesy of man- 
ner, from those persons to whom one commits the care 
of one’s offspring. Gerald, come with me, dear; I 
want you. ” 

She swept away, leading one of her offspring by the 


LADY BETTY’S YOUNG MAN. I9I 

hand ; and Elfrida, dazed and humiliated, dropped into 
a chair and covered her face. She did not often cry, 
but this time she felt as if the tears must come. Truly, 
Lady Kesterton’s rule promised to be a hard one. 
Could she support it long, even for Henry’s sake? 

A little warm hand came about her neck ; a little soft 
cheek was laid against her shoulder. 

“ Don’t cry,” said Janey, wistfully. “ I’ll love you — 
don’t cry.” 

“You little darling!” said Elfie, with a sob, and then 
she gathered the child into her arms, and laughed and 
cried together, to Janey ’s amazement. 

They became the greatest of friends on the spur of 
the moment ; and, indeed, when Elfrida knew her young 
charge a little better, she found an odd similarity be- 
tween her own position as a child and that of Janey 
Kesterton. Janey was no favorite either with her par- 
ents or her nurses. There was something reserved, 
strange, delicate, in her nature : at the slightest hint 
of coldness her whole nature seemed to close up; at 
kindness, it opened like a flower. And the warm affec- 
tions of Elfrida ’s heart, long restricted in their mani- 
festations, poured themselves out upon Janey, so that 
the child throve and flourished apace, like a plant in the 
open air and sunshine. 

But that was by and by. On this particular morning 
she soon recovered her cheerfulness, and took Janey 
back with her to her brother’s room ; for it was twelve 
o’clock, and she expected to And him established there 
upon his couch. To her surprise, the sound of voices 
and laughter came from the room. Opening the door, 
she found not only Henry, but an exceedingly pretty 
girl and an irreproachably attired young man. 


192 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


The girl was little, slender, almost childish-looking, 
with a fair baby face and large, limpid, innocent blue 
eyes; an aureole of fair hair and the most delicious 
dimples in the world. Elfrida recognized her at once 
from Henry’s previous description, but no introduction 
seemed to be required. 

“ Oh, here she is!” said the fair visitor. “ I’m Betty 
Stormont, and you are Henry’s Elfie. I always call you 
Henry’s Elfie — you don’t mind?” 

“No, indeed, I don’t mind,” said Elfie, feeling her 
heart warm at once to the charming baby face and 
winning smile. 

“ I would have come yesterday, but my sister-in-law 
said that I should be in the way. I’m staying here, you 
know, so I often come to see Henry; and so does Lord 
Beaulieu.” She turned and smiled at the young man 
in the background. “Lord Beaulieu — Miss Paston,” 
she said, with the greatest nonchalance. “Now I have 
introduced you properly, although Beatrice does say 
that I haven’t any manners.” 

Lord Beaulieu looked about twenty-four, and was 
a comely, well-groomed young fellow; manly, broad- 
chested, moderately tall, brovm-haired and gray-eyed. 
Perhaps the most noteworthy thing about him was his 
pleasant and candid expression ; he looked like a man 
who could not do a mean thing to save his life. Elfrida 
liked his face ; and he, Lionel — Lord Beaulieu — thought 
that he had never before seen anything so beautiful as 
hers. He did nothing but look at her for the remain- 
der of his visit ; and left the talking to Lady Betty, who 
seemed quite at home in Henry’s room. 

They did not go until it was quite lunch-time, and 


LADY BETTY^S YOUNG MAN. 


193 


then Lady Betty created some little embarrassment by 
taking it for granted that she should meet Elfrida in 
the dining-room. 

“ And then I hope you will go for a walk with me. 
We can arrange all that at lunch,” she said, with her 
sunny, charming smile. 

“ Oh, but Elfie is going to lunch with me, ” said Henry, 
who was wonderfully quick-witted and ready in pre- 
venting awkwardnesses. “ I have had so little of her 
lately, you know.” 

“ And after to-day, I am going to dine with the chil- 
dren,” said Elfrida, gayly. She would have no mis- 
conceptions on the subject. “And I shall spend the 
evenings with my brother, so I don’t think you will see 
much of me down-stairs. ” 

Lady Betty opened her eyes. 

“Oh!” she said. “But — ” And there she stopped. 

“You were .going to say, ‘Won’t you be very dull?’ ” 
said Henry, laughing. “ It’s not a compliment to me, 
Lady Betty. Elfie and I keep each other in spirits, I 
assure you. ” 

“ He must have been a good deal alone while I was 
away: I am not going to abandon him now,” said El- 
frida, going up to his couch, and putting her hand 
gently on her brother’s arm. 

“ I’m sure — I — I wish I was Henry,” broke from Lord 
Beaulieu’s lips; and then he flushed hotly, with the 
consciousness of having said a wrong thing. 

“Oh, no, you don’t! Think of my disabilities,*’ said 
Henry quaintly, yet with something that was almost a 
touch of pathos in his voice. “ You need not grudge 
me the few advantages I retain.” 

13 


194 


SIR ANTHONV^S SECRET. 


“As if it was an advantage to have me to tease you!” 
ejaculated Elfrida ; but although she laughed, there was 
a tear at the corner of her eye. 

There was a . curious momentary silence. Elfrida’s 
hand was caressing her brother’s arm. Henry lay still, 
with a bright flush upon his thin face and a dreamy 
look in his large blue eyes. Lady Betty and Lord Beau- 
lieu stood side by side near the foot of the couch, look- 
ing at the brother and sister, and with the same thought 
in the mind of each. 

It seemed to the two bright and prosperous young 
people a terrible thing that so little brightness and pros- 
perity came to the lives of those other two. Beaulieu’s 
pity was principally for Henry, with his crippled, use- 
less limbs ; but Betty, full of tenderness for Henry as 
she was, could better understand what Elfrida’s life was 
about to be, and she pitied her almost more than her 
brother. For Henry had known nothing but deprivation 
all his life, and though his loss was greater, it was un- 
likely that he would ever suffer the disappointment and 
humiliation that would probably fall to Elfrida’s lot — 
Elfrida, a girl as bright, as strong, as beautiful, as a 
girl could be. Little Lady Betty had a wise head and a 
womanly heart, for all her baby face ; and there was a 
wonderful sweetness and sympathy in her eyes as she 
bid her friends good-by. 

“ By Jove!” said Beaulieu, who was still something of 
a school-boy in his expressions, as they walked rather 
soberly along the picture-gallery together. “ By Jove !” 

Lady Betty looked at him and nodded. 

“You feel like that too!” she said. “I was wanting 
to make an exclamation of some kind, and I didn’t 
know what to say. ” 


LADY Betty’s young man. 


195 


“ It makes me ashamed of being strong and well, 
somehow,” said the young fellow, glancing down at his 
own goodly limbs. 

■^And yet I never knew any one so happy as he 
seems,” said Betty softly. 

They did not say more, but they felt all the comfort 
of mutual sympathy and understanding— a dangerous 
state of mind, as a general rule, for a young man and a 
young girl, but not so dangerous in the case of these 
two as it seemed. For they had known each other all 
their lives, and familiarity — it does not always breed 
contempt — brings about a certain carelessness of inter- 
course. So that Henry was rather beside the mark 
when he said, in answer to Elfrida’s question respectr 
ing Lord Beaulieu: 

“ Oh, he’s Lady Betty’s young man!” 

“ How do you mean? Are they engaged?” 

“ No — I was really only joking. Philip hinted one 
day that it was what the families wished. You must 
not say anything about it.” 

“ Of course not. Do they — do they — like each other, 
Henry?” 

“How can I tell?” said Henry, laughing. “They 
squabble and slang each other a good bit now and then. 
But they are very good friends. He lives about five 
miles from here, you know, at Bewley Court. He is 
rather a friend of Philip’s — that is how he has got into 
the way of coming here so much, especially as Philip is 
so much with the Belt^es. ” 

“ I did not know you had such a fund of information — 
not to say gossip — about your neighbors, Harry. ” 

“ Well, it is something to do to get old Terry to talk 
gossip to me sometimes ; ai;d it does jiobody any harm, ” 


196 SIR Anthony's secret, 

“ Of course not, dear. Did you ever see Lady Bel- 
tane?" 

“Yes, she has been here once or twice. She looks 
very good-natured; but at the same time,” said Henry 
thoughtfully, “ I don’t quite like her.” 

“And I — hate her,” said Elfrida. But she could not 
tell him why. 

She did not go for her walk with Lady Betty that 
afternoon — the girl told her afterward that she had been 
prevented by her hostess. 

“Lady Kesterton had other plans,” she said, with a 
shrug of her graceful shoulders. “You know, dear. 
Lady Kesterton and my sister-in-law are cousins, and, 
I suppose, very intimate friends. Whenever I want to 
go anywhere or do anything they take counsel together, 
and generally prevent me. But Sir Anthony and Mr. 
Winyates take my side sometimes, and then I do as I 
like. That was how I came to be allowed to visit 
Henry as much as I do ; but there was a row royal about 
it at first.” 

“ I should not have thought that you could hold your 
own in a row royal, ” said Elfrida, glancing at the pecul- 
iarly soft and gentle face. 

“You don’t know me yet,” said Lady Betty. “I am 
the most wilful person in the world. So Beatrice says; 
and as she has had the charge of me for the last half 
dozen years, she ought to know. ” 

Elfrida began to feel as if a new world were opening 
out about her. Although she did not see much of the 
other guests in the house, she learned a good deal of 
their doings from Lady Betty’s casual talk. 

She knew before long all about Mrs. Main waring and 
her tall, plain daughters, and the little peer whom they 


LADY BETTY'S YOUNG MAN, 


197 


hoped to enslave ; about Mr. and Mrs. Frank Lawrence 
and their respective flirtations; about the old Indian 
judge and his soldier son, whom everybody admired so 
immensely; and about the widower baronet and the 
rising young artist; and the pretty poetess, and the 
two or three odd young men and girls who came and 
went with bewildering rapidity. 

Lord Beltane was in Scotland, and his wife was to 
stay here with Betty until he came back. Then Lord 
Beaulieu rode over very frequently, and other neigh- 
bors called or lunched or dined ; and the house seemed 
to be full of jollity and mirth. 

Lady Kesterton was not perhaps a genial hostess, but 
she had the knack of asking the right people together ; 
and Sir Anthony played the courteous host to perfec- 
tion when he was visible, which was not very often, for 
he lived chiefly in his library, cultivating classic liter- 
ature and delicate health. 

Philip Winyates fulfilled the duties of a son of the 
house, and fulfilled them admirably, in spite of the 
claims upon his time. He had resigned his land- 
agency into the hands of an inferior, and lived a pleas- 
ant enough life, with literature by way of a profession. 
But Elfrida’s keen eyes discovered sometimes that he 
looked weary — even troubled and perplexed. His eyes 
had a trick of softening when they fell upon her — but 
Elfie had taken a fancy to think that they softened in 
that way for every woman that he knew, and therefore 
— although she was mis taken — that look of his produced 
very little impression upon her. 

No, ‘there was some one else whose glances were of 
infinitely more importance to Elfrida. There was some 
one who brought her flowers, and sat persistently with 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


her brother for hours at a time ; some one who seemed 
happy if she smiled on him, and who had no eyes now 
for any one but herself ; some one whose coming made 
her heart beat wildly, her cheeks glow, her hands turn 
cold ! Foolish Blfrida, not to remember how wide a 
gulf there lay between the Kestertons’ nursery govern- 
ess and Baron Beaulieu of Bewley” Court. 


CHAPTER XVlIt 


AFTER DINNER. 

“ Miss Paston, I should be glad if you would be in 
the drawing-room to-night after dinner. Miss Main- 
waring wants some one to play her accompaniments. ” 

Lady Kesterton did not wait for answers to her com- 
mands. She had entered the school-room to give this 
order, and she was out again before Elfrida had recov- 
ered from her surprise. 

Have you got a pretty frock to wear?” asked Janey 
anxiously, pausing in her occupation of adding up fig- 
ures on a slate. 

“Miss Paston hasn’t got any pretty frocks; she’s only 
our governess,” growled Master Gerald, who was still 
a particularly rude and troublesome boy when, as just 
now, he had met with difficulties in his reading-lesson. 

“ Go on^Vith your -lessons, tny dear, ” said Elfrida, 
“ and never mind my personal appearance. If I go 
down in an old sack, it won’t matter to you^ will it?” 
and she laughed so merrily that even Gerald was be- 
guiled into an uncomprehending chuckle. 

That was the best of Elfrida — she could be stormy 
at times, with the rest of us, but when she had no im- 
mediate cause for depression she could also be brill- 
iantly, infectiously gay ; you could not resist the spell of 
her charming mirth. It swept you away in a full tide of 
enjoyment. The same spirit was observable in Henry, 

199 


200 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


though in him it was tempered by illness and confine- 
ment ; but it welled up within him as in her — a love of 
healthful mirth and innocent laughter, which seemed 
as natural to them as song to birds or perfume to sum- 
mer flowers. 

In spite of her laughing answer to the children’s re- 
marks, however. Miss Elfrida was somewhat disquieted 
about her dress. She went in her perplexity to Terry, 
and was surprised to see the old woman’s face wrinkle 
up into lines of unaccustomed pleasure and amusement. 

“Why, Terry,” said the girl, half ruefully, half com- 
ically, “ I don’t — for once — see anything to laugh at! I 
have only my cotton frocks and the old striped muslin, 
and a black silk, you know — besides serge and such like. 
I suppose I must put on the black silk and a fichu — 
the very sign and emblem of ‘genteel poverty!’ ” 

“We’ll see about your black silk. Miss Elfie ; you shall 
put it on if you’ve a mind to,” said Terry, laughing. 
“ But there’s one of your dresses that might do instead. 
You wait here and I’ll show you what I’ve been doing 
to it.” 

“I suppose it’s the old striped muslin,” said Elfrida 
to her brother, with a shrug of the graceful shoulders. 
She turned to the fire and stood looking down into it, 
while Henry smiled to himself. “ It’s been cleaned and 
washed and darned, and let down and retrimmed about 
a hundred times already. I suppose she has run on a 
new bit of lace and a blue ribbon, and thinks it looks 
‘as good as new.’ My opinion is that the black silk 
would be better, after all. Why, Terry, what’s that?” 

For Terry, entering mysteriously, carried in her arms, 
like a baby, a soft white dress which Elfrida had cer- 
tainly never seen before. It was of the finest white 


AFTER DINNER. 


201 


India muslin, trimmed sparingly with Valenciennes 
lace and knots of white ribbon, made with narrow tucks 
and pleatings like a baby’s robe — the ideal dress for a 
young girl, with its mixture of simplicity and elegance. 
Elf rid a stood amazed. 

“ Terr}^ — Terry — Terry — that delicious frock isn’t for 
me! Why, where did it come from? It’s perfectly 
lovely. It can’t have been Lady Kesterton — ” 

Lady Kesterton! No, indeed!” said 'Terry, with a 
fine scorn. “ As if she would trouble what you wore. 
It’s Master Henry, my dear, that’s been thinking of you, 
and it’s him you’ve got to thank. I made it myself, 
but it’s Master Henry’s thought and choice and getting, 
and my Lady Betty lent me a pattern that she said 
would suit. ” 

“You, Harry dear! But why did you do it? How 
could you, you dear, naughty boy? And I don’t under- 
stand—” 

“ It is easy enough to understand,” said Henry, smil- 
ing. “You know, I always have an allowance, and I 
never need to spend it, so I began to think some time 
ago whether I could not get you anything you would 
like. And Terry took me into her confidence on the 
subject of your wardrobe directly you were asked to 
come here. _ So one day she went over to Eastbourne 
and got this stuff for you ; and she has made it into a 
dress since she came back. Lady Betty understands 
these things, and she tells me it is just the right thing 
for you.” 

“How good you are, Henry! How good you are!” 
cried the girl, sinking down on her knees beside him 
arid pressing her sbft lips to his cheek. “ You are the 
best brother that ever lived! And just to think of a 


202 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


boy like you knowing so exactly what I should like ! I 
think it is wonderful.” 

“ Go and try it on,” said Henry, with a laugh. I’m 
glad I’ve chosen a thing you like, anyhow. But go and 
try it, and come back when you are dressed up.” 

Elfrida did as he wished. She ran off to her room, 
followed by the smiling Terry, while Henry picked up 
a book, knowing — in the instinctive way in which he 
seemed to know so many things, the finer nerves in 
him being strung by his illness to an almost dangerous 
pitch of sensibility — that it would probably be quite 
half an hour before she returned. And he was right ; it 
was about forty minutes before she came, but she ex- 
cused herself by saying that some little alterations had 
had to be made by Terry. 

“ And now do I look nice? Do I do justice to your 
taste?” she said, dropping him a courtesy. 

“To my thinking, you are lovely,” said Henry. 
And the smile of satisfaction on his face was sweeter to 
Elfrida than that of any other admirer. 

The dress certainly suited her very well. The dis- 
tinction of her face and head, the delicacy and finish of 
her traits, the fine pallor of her complexion, melting 
into a faint peach-like bloom on the oval of her cheeks, 
and a brighter red on her curved lips, were all set off 
to the best advantage by the snowy whiteness of her 
frock and its air of simple refinement. 

She was young and fresh enough to wear almost child- 
ishly simple attire, and she had no temptation to spoil 
the effect v/ith colored ornaments of any kind, for she 
had none to wear. Elfrida’s wardrobe had always been 
sparingly provided with pretty things. But now she 
was perfectly satisfied with what she had got. 


AFTER DINNER. 


203 


When evening came she dressed once more, and 
showed herself in all her bravery to her brother before 
she bade him good-night. Then she slipped down to 
the big drawing-room, establishing herself near the 
grand piano, as she deemed it her duty to do. She had 
brought some music with her, but she put it out of 
sight, not wishing to attract more attention than nec- 
essary ; and tooh up an illustrated book by way of occu- 
pying herself until the ladies should return from the 
dining-room. 

But she had no particular inclination to look at pict- 
ures. She was absorbed in noting the changes in the 
drawing-rooms since she saw them last. They were 
very beautifully decorated and furnished now ; but she 
half regretted the dim, old-fashioned splendors of an 
early day, when she used to steal into the room with 
Eliza and lose herself in admiration of the Bohemian 
glass, cut-glass chandeliers, and flowery carpet of the 
olden time. Well, the effect was prettier now, she was 
obliged to confess. 

Then she fell to wondering who would be there that 
night; her friend. Lady Betty, of course, and Philip 
Winj^ates — they would^ be kind and nice to her; per- 
haps even Lord Beaulieu. But he, Elfie reflected 
sadly, would probably not be able, even if he cared, to 
give her any of his attention. 

To the other people who would be present she felt 
absolutely indifferent; even the thought of Sir An- 
thony, whom she had seen only on that one unfortunate 
occasion in the school-room ; and she had ceased to be 
much concerned at Lady Kesterton’s strictures. But 
when the hum and buzz from the dining-room suddenly 
ceased, and a door was opened in the distance, and the 


204 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


soft frou-frou of silk was heard along the corridor, she 
certainly did turn a little nervous at the thought of 
meeting with all these strangers, and heartily wished 
herself, for the moment, safe back with Henry in the 
west wing. 

She was so much hidden by the grand piano that at 
first she passed unobserved. Then Lady Betty, detach- 
ing herself from the group of ladies, floated up to her 
like a summer cloud on an azure sky^all white and blue 
with a blue that matched her eyes. 

“ So you have come,” she said. And you are abso- 
lutely charming! How do you like my taste? It is 
mine and Henry’s, you know, and I think you are sim- 
pl)^ perfect!” 

“ It was so kind of you to help,” said Elfrida, in the 
low tone proper for such confidences. “And wasn’t it 
good of Henry? I don’t know what I should have done 
without it to-night. ” 

“ It is quite a success,” said Lady Betty approvingly, 
“and I know who’ll be charmed. But I won’t tell you 
beforehand. Find out! There’s Beatrice, for one, 
eying you through her glass as if she would like to 
eat you. Ah, she’s coming over here now.” 

And Lady Beltane, in a white brocade train, with a 
petticoat of yellow satin, and a very small corsage of 
satin and brocade, showing as much of her white shoul- 
ders, arms and bosom as it could conveniently, be made 
to do, swept up to Elfrida at that moment and offered 
her two fingers in a languid, indifferent way. But all 
the time her eye was fixed upon the details of the girl’s 
toilet; she was looking at her dusky masses of hair 
drawn up from the warm white of her neck and forehead, 
at the baby bodice, edged with delicate lace, of her 


AfTEk DINNER. 


205 

muslin gown, at the long white silk mittens which were 
all Elfrida had by way of covering her exquisitely 
moulded arms and hands. 

“White muslin, lace and ribbons!” Lady Beltane was 
saying to herself, “and yet the effect is undeniable. 
The dress is made exactly like ’Betty’s silk from Lib- 
erty’s. I wonder if the girl had the impudence to pry 
into Betty’s wardrobe and copy it!” 

But while she made these remarks to herself, she 
was slowly dropping out heavy, affable sentences about 
the weather and the piano, and the music that lay upon 
it, as if she wanted to be friendly. 

Presently Lady Kesterton came up and introduced 
her in a casual sort of way to Miss Mainwaring, whose 
accompaniments she was to play, and after a little more 
idle chatter and consumption of coffee, Elfrida was — 
told, rather than asked — to play something. 

She complied at once. Her playing was good, crisp, 
clear, and expressive, but not absolutely remarkable — 
more calculated to give quiet pleasure to the real lovers 
of classical music than to produce the effect of “ fire- 
works. ” 

Lady Kesterton was rather pleased at this. The fin- 
ished style of the young musician, trained in a German 
school, did not appeal to the ear; she thought it a little 
dull. And as she had not particularly wished Elfrida 
to excite admiration, she was satisfied. She had been 
first a trifle afraid about the excellent musical training 
which she knew that the girl had received. 

When Elfrida ’s music had made itself heard, the men 
began to flock in from the dining-room. Philip, rather 
to Elfie’s surprise, did not come to the piano all at 
once. He spoke to Lady Beltane and stood looking 


2o6 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


down at her and replying to her low-toned remarks 
uttered behind her great white feather fan, as she 
lounged, after her usual indolent fashion, in a big easy- 
chair. Once or twice he glanced impatiently away 
from her. Elfrida, knowing by instinct every subtle 
change in his face, saw that he wanted to get away ; 
but Lady Beltane chained him inexorably to her side. 

Somebody else, however, was not disposed to absent 
himself. Lord Beaulieu came up, his blue eyes alight, 
his honest, healthy cheek a little flushed by pleasure and 
surprise. 

“So glad to see you, Miss Paston! I hope you’re 
going to give us some music. I knowhow fond Henry 
is of your singing.” 

“Oh, thanks, I’m not going to sing,” said Elfrida, 
smiling at him a little shyly. “ I am going to play 
Miss Mainwaring’s accompaniments.” 

Lord Beaulieu gave a swift glance round and then 
lowered his brown head confldentially. 

“She can’t sing a bit, let me tell you. Miss Paston; 
I would a great deal rather hear you ; now you wt7l give 
us a song by and by, won’t you?” 

How to resist that coaxing tone Elfrida hardly knew. 
But she had no time to reply, for Lady Kesterton was 
bearing down* upon her. 

“ Miss Mainwaring is ready now,” she said. “ Have 
you the music. Miss Paston?” 

And Elfle, blushing red as a rose at the tone of re- 
proof, hunted out Miss Mainwaring’s music, and became 
aware, as she placed it on the music-rack, that Sir An- 
thony had turned round and was contemplating her and 
stroking his gray mustache with an air of amused and 
deliberate scrutiny. He looked more good-natured than 


AFTER DINNER. 


207 


usual, Elfrida thought, and evening attire was becom- 
ing to him — giving him the old air of a gentleman and 
a scholar instead of the querulous invalid which he was 
too easily tempted to assume ; but his continued atten- 
tion made her a little nervous and called a rather pretty 
color into her usually pale face. 

She duly played Miss M ain waring’ s accompaniments, 
however ; and the guests were edified by having to listen 
to a very small and reedy voice, which had indeed been 
well trained, but which no training could ever make 
pleasant. She sang twice, and then settled down in a 
low chair with the evident conviction that she had done 
her duty. 

Elfrida wondered whether she ought to go now that 
her work was done. A whist party was being organized 
in one part of the room, a round game in another. 
There seemed no need of her services. 

But Sir Anthony was addressing her in his suavest, 
most polished way. 

“ Good-evening, Miss Paston. I am glad that you 
have forsaken your retreat up-stairs in our favor this 
evening. I hear that you sing ; will you not be so kind 
as to indulge us?” 

Elfrida knew that it was not for her to refuse, al- 
though Lady Kesterton was darting an angry glance in 
her direction. And she was perhaps not sorry to have 
“a chance,” as she put it half mockingly to herself. 
She placed a song upon the piano. 

“ May I turn over for you?” said an eager voice in her 
ear. 

“Do you know your notes?” said Elfrida, without 
turning her head, which showed that she recognized 
the voice. 


2o8 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ I should think I did. Why, I play the ’cello a lit- 
tle. I’m awfully fond of music!” 

“Very well,” said Elfie, graciously; and Beaulieu 
straightened himself up, and looked as proud as though 
he had an army to command. 

Elfrida had not many English songs, and on the 
whole preferred German ones ; so on this occasion she 
followed her own tastes and sang a well-known and 
very melodious Schubert song, which she was quite sure 
that any cultured audience could not resist. And in 
fact her voice and her singing took the company by 
storm — as far as so unemotional and well-bred a com- 
pany could be taken by storm at all. She had a soprano 
voice of peculiarly sweet and searching quality, particu- 
larly in the upper register, where her notes came forth 
with a bird-like spontaneity which never failed to charm 
her hearers. There was something pathetic in it, too — 
something which made the heart swell and the eye grow 
dim. It was a voice to soften as well as to attract. 
And it was absolutely new : nobody had suspected her of 
such a power ; it took the hearers by surprise. At its 
close half a dozen of the listeners closed up round the 
piano with thanks and compliments. These, however, 
were chiefly men. 

Lady Kesterton and Lady Beltane exchanged glances 
and sat still ; Mrs. Mainwaring and her daughter were 
visibly disconcerted. Philip was not allowed to stir 
from Beatrice’s side. But Lady Betty and Lord Beau- 
lieu, as well as some other guests, were in ecstasies. 

“Oh, don’t get up yet, don’t get up; you must sing 
something more!” said one of the visitors, a very excita- 
ble little man, reputed to be a musical critic for one of 
the society papers. He had at once asked for and ob- 


AFTER DINNER. 


209 


tained an introduction from Lady Betty to the fair song- 
stress. “ Pray, permit me : you have something here 
that’s rather nice — although it is English. Won’t you 
oblige us by singing that?” 

“Please do, Miss Paston,” murmured Beaulieu; and 
to this request, as well as to a slow “ Pray, oblige us ” 
from Sir Anthony, Elfrida gave heed. This time it was 
one of Taubert’s songs with English words, “ My Dar- 
ling is so Fair,” which contains a charming passage for 
a sweet well-trained soprano like hers. It was perhaps 
even more successful, because more comprehensible, 
than the other. 

“ Perhaps you will come and have a game now?” said 
Lady Kesterton’s voice at the close to one of the circle 
of admiring men. “We want two or three of you to 
play — come, Lord Beaulieu, we can’t do without you, or 
Mr. Pemberton either. We can have some more music 
by and by.” 

She managed to disperse the little circle by her au- 
thoritative tones ; and nobody heard her say to Elfrida : 

“ You need not take up the whole evening with your 
singing, you know. You had better slip away now; 
you will not be wanted.” 

It was a blow to Elfrida. Lord Beaulieu had just 
conveyed to her his earnest desire that she would come 
and play Nap and bank with him; he wished she could 
bank with him always, he informed her, somewhat pre- 
maturely perhaps. And she was just wondering whether 
she dared remain, when Lady Kesterton’s snub was 
murmured into her ear. 

She obeyed, of course. She slipped out by the fold- 
ing doors of the two drawing-rooms, making her escape 
by a side door. But her eyes had filled with hot, child- 

14 


210 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


ish, smarting tears. She was disappointed, and she was 
also humiliated. It was hard to be sent away when the 
fun was beginning, as if she were not worthy to sit down 
to the same card-table with Lady Betty and Lord Beau- 
lieu. 

“Where are you going. Miss Paston? You promised 
to be my partner,” said the bright, boyish voice that 
she was already beginning to know so well. “Aren’t 
you coming back?” 

Beaulieu had observed her disappearance, and had 
contrived to go out by the other door and meet her in 
the hall. 

She shook her head and smiled, but he noticed the 
bright tear-drop upon her eyelashes. 

“ Is it that old — was it Lady Kesterton?” 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter! I shouldn’t be fit for my 
work if I were up late to-night. Good-by, Lord Beau- 
lieu, I must go.” 

“You say it doesn’t matter! Aren’t you sorry? 
Wouldn’t you like to have had that game?” 

“Well, yes, rather—” 

“And — Avith me? You wouldn’t have minded being 
my partner, would you?” 

“ Oh, no, ” said Elfrida, looking down. 

“ Don’t you' think we should get on very well — as . 
partners?” said Beaulieu, approaching her. There was 
not a touch of disrespect or familiarity in his manner ; 
but Elfrida was vaguely frightened at it, and hearing 
the click of the door-handle, she flew precipitately down 
the corridor. 

And Beaulieu turned to find Lady Beltane regarding 
him from the drawing-room door with a curiously 
malicious (and as Beaulieu thought) unpleasant smile. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE HEIRESS OF THE FUTURE. 

“You must have Miss Paston down again,” said Sir 
Anthony to his wife n.ext day, during his occasional 
morning lounge in her boudoir. “ Indeed, I would 
have her every night, if I were you; her singing is 
uncommonly attractive. ” 

“I shall not have her down again!” said Lady Kes- 
terton sharply. 

“ Indeed? Why do you deprive yourself of such val- 
uable help?” 

“ The girl is a flirt, a bom coquette, a brazen-faced 
little creature, who gives herself airs about her voice,” 
Lady Kestertcn burst out with sudden vehemence. “ I 
will not have her in my drawing-room to make eyes at 
men and try to attract their attention. It was scan- 
dalous, the way she behaved.” 

Sir Anthony laughed. 

“Pardon me,” he said gently, “but for once I must 
say that you are mistaken. She was in my sight from 
the moment we came into the room to the moment that 
she quitted it. I observed absolutely nothing wrong 
with her manners. ” 

“ Men are very easy to hoodwink,” said Lady Kester- 
ton contemptuously. 

“ Pardon me again. I am not easy to hoodwink. ” 

“ Well, in spite of your penetration, Anthony, you do 


2T2 


SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET* 


not know all that went on. Lady Beltane happened to 
go into the hall just after Miss Paston went out, and 
there was Lord Beaulieu talking to her — almost with 
his arm round her — disgraceful!” 

“ I saw that Beaulieu admired her a good deal, ” said 
Sir Anthony. There was a peculiarly grim smile upon 
his face. 

“ Considering the plans of the family respecting him, 
I think he might have better taste in this house. He is 
as good as — well, almost— engaged to Betty Stormont.” 

“ Beaulieu is a free agent. He will never propose by 
proxy. He is a dolt, but he is a good fellow. I always 
liked Lionel.” 

“ Then of course you will do your best to help me in 
preventing this flirtation from becoming an entangle- 
ment,” said his wife, in her severest voice. 

“ Why do you call it an entanglement?” 

Lady Kesterton gazed at him in despair. 

“ Beaulieu and a nursery governess ! A girl who has 
no family, no fortune; for all I know, no name! A 
scandal — a disgrace!” 

“You are in error, my dear, ’’said her husband coldly, 
“ and you are on the road to making a very great mis- 
take. / know the girl’s history, if you do not; and I 
say, advisedly, that Elfrida has name, family, and fort- 
une sufficient to satisfy even Beaulieu’s friends, unless 
they insist upon a title, which of course she hasn’t got. 
So if those facts are likely to affect your estimate of the 
girl, by all means rectify it in good time. ” 

Lady Kesterton actually turned pale as she continued 
to look at him. 

“Anthony, what — what do you mean?” she cried. 

“ I mean exactly what I have said. ” 


the heiress of The future. 


213 


“ Do you mean that she is — of good birth?” 

“Certainly.” 

He had never said so much before. 

“Anthony, tell me who she is,” said Lady Kesterton, 
with white lips. 

He looked at her and smiled. 

“ That is my secret, my dear. You will know some 
day; but not just now. ” 

“ At least, tell me she is not — ” 

“ I shall tell you nothing, and I do not wish to be 
questioned. When I want you to know, I shall speak 
without questioning. In the mean time you had better 
be civil to the girl. ” 

His wife kept silence for a few minutes. 

“ If she is as you say, why did you let me make her 
the children’s governess’” 

“ It will do her no harm. You need not begin to treat 
her as an heiress — there’s many a slip ’twixt the cup 
and the lip— and she may get nothing, after all. Just 
go on as usual. Be decently civil. ” 

Lady Kesterton needed the admonition. She certainly 
would not have been “ decently civil ” without it. As 
it was, she reserved the scolding which she had at first 
intended to administer to Elfrida on the subject of her 
dress, manners, conversation, and style of singing, and 
contented herself merely with a touch more stiffness 
and coldness to the girl than usual. Sir Anthony’s 
communication had both startled and frightened her. 
It revived an old fear of hers that Elfrida and Henry 
might prove to be Sir Anthony’s legitimate children, in 
which case her own cherished Gerald and Janey would 
be completely dispossessed. Of late she had forgotten 
this fear. But it rose up, gaunt and grisly now, before 


214 


SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET. 


her eyes. If that could be the possible explanation of 
the case, no hatred of hers against Elfrida and her 
brother could be too great. 

Directly after her conference with Sir Anthony she 
went to Lady Beltane’s room — Lady Beltane had en- 
lightened her the night before as to what she had seen 
in the hall — and entertained her with a recital of what 
her husband had said. 

“ I am growing quite frightened about that girl ; she 
seems destined to upset everything,” she said. “You 
were quite right, Beatrice; she is a very dangerous 
young woman. ” 

“I always said so,” Beatrice rejoined contemptu- 
ously ; “ and it is my opinion that she will be more dan- 
gerous to me than to you.” 

“ What do you mean? How can she be that? If she 
were to take Janey’s place, and that wretched crippled 
boy were the eldest — ” 

“ My dear Eva, don’t be ridiculous! If they were his 
legitimate children. Sir Anthony would never have 
treated them as he has done. Of course everybody has 
always thought that they were his children, but that 
he was not properly married to the mother. It is not 
likely that they are anything else. ’' 

“ But he says they are — well-born.” 

“ Then they are not his children at all, but his friend’s 
— as he has always said. Don’t be so absurd, Eva. 
The friend was a man of better position than we have 
supposed, that’s all, and has left the children a fortune. 
Sir Anthony is right enough. It’s no use bullying the 
girl — nor is it any use -so changing your manner to her 
so that she or other people shall suspect that you know 
something more about her. ” 


THE HEIRESS OF THE FUTURE. 215 

“ That is true, Beatrice ; you have plenty of common 
sense.” 

“ Of course I have ; I am not such a fool as people take 
me for, ” said Beatrice a little bitterly. “ I am old 
enough to have learned wisdom, I suppose.” 

She went to her mirror as she spoke, and looked at 
herself with a sort of disgust. The morning light was 
not favorable to her complexion, wonderful though it 
sometimes appeared at night. 

Eva, looking at her dispassionately, thought how 
clumsy Beatrice’s figure looked in the richly tinted 
dressing-gown that fell from her throat to her feet in 
voluminous folds of changeful silk and gold ; her own 
slim, flat-chested form in its light tweed gown was 
much more to her taste. 

“ What did you mean by saying that Miss Paston was 
more dangerous to you than to me?” she demanded 
presently. 

Lady Beltane turned away from the looking-glass 
with a flash in her eye. 

“ She is dangerous in every way to me and to my fam- 
ily. What does the girl mean by carrying off men’s 
attention from everybody else? She has not yet had 
time to win their hearts, I think ; but her thoughts? We 
have no claim on Beaulieu, but he was always intended 
to marry Betty Stormont, as you know. Beltane will 
be furious if he finds that’s off. And what girl of spirit 
will put up with a man whom she hears of as embra- 
cing pretty governesses in the hall?” 

Isn’t that going a little too far? Do you think he 
absolutely — embraced her?” said Lady Kesterton, with 
a shocked air. 

“If not, he came very near it: And I’ve been ques- 


2i6 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


tioning Betty this morning. It seems that Beaulieu 
always goes to the west wing when he comes, on pre- 
tence of visiting Henry Paston. The young people meet 
together there in the most indecorous way.” 

“ That went on before Elfrida came back,” said Eva, 
who had spasmodic fits of justice now and then. 

“Yes, but it needn’t go on now. The boy was sup- 
posed to be lonely ; he has his sister now. As it is, 
Beaulieu — and Betty, too, for the matter of that — spend 
hours, I believe, in that west wing.” 

“You must tell Betty to keep away!” 

“ As if I had such a lot of authority over Betty ! Why, 
you know the child has done as she liked ever since she 
was born! Besides, that would not drive Beaulieu 
away — and he goes to see the Paston girl now, what- 
ever he did before. And then there is Philip — Philip!'' 

“ She was always a pet of Philip’s.” 

“Yes but he never used to talk about her. Last 
night he raved — raved — simply raved about that girl 
and her voice!” 

“ Silly of him to do that \.o you^' said Lady Kesterton 
dryly. “ But really, Beatrice, don’t you think it is a 
pity to pin Philip so closely to your side? It was all 
very well when he was a boy ; but he is three or four 
and thirty now, and you — well, you know what you 
are — a very well-preserved woman, but not, of course, 
in your first youth. If you could but grasp that fact, 
and let Philip amuse himself elsewhere.” 

“ Philip is welcome to amuse himself elsewhere if he 
chooses,” said Lady Beltane. She spoke coolly, but her 
eyes flashed again with a dangerous light. “ I cer- 
tainly never wished him to remain single for my sake. 
But if he marries, I do hope it will be with somebody 


THE HEIRESS OF THE FUTURE. 217 

respectable — not with a girl of such doubtful antece- 
dents as hers. ” 

Lady Kesterton was silent: she was turning over 
many plans and suggestions in her mind. 

I wonder,” she said at last, “whether we could get 
anything out of old Watson! He is a great fool, al- 
though honest as the day ; and even Anthony says he 
is not the man he used to be. We might try him. ” 

“ Try, by all means,” said Beatrice, “ but I don’t think 
that he will say a word more than your husband allows 
him to.” 

Eva was determined, however, not to lose a chance. 
She sat down at once and wrote a note to Mr. Watson 
asking him to call upon her. This note she sent into 
the town by a special messenger; but the man, after 
some delay, returned to tell her that Mr. Watson was 
not at his office, and that he .was reported to be ill. 
Lady Kesterton was at first rather disposed to question 
this statement ; but unfortunately it was confirmed by 
further testimony. And two days later, news was 
brought to the Park of the death of John Watson, 
solicitor, from an unusually short and sudden attack 
of pneumonia. 

Among those who mourned his loss, Elfrida and 
Henry Paston were to be numbered. Ever since their 
earliest days they had memories of Mr. Watson. 
When they were litttle children he had been reserved 
and silent, but seemed to look at them with kindly 
interest, which, as they grew up, developed into a kind 
of paternal affection. It was he who practically acted 
as their guardian ; paid them their pocket-money, ar- 
ranged with Terry for their expenses. He had always 
been fond of Henry ; and since he had seen Elfrida at 


2i8 


SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET. 


Seaford, he had become one of heT warmest admirers. 
The brother and sister grieved sincerely for his death, 
and felt themselves more alotie than ever. 

Lady Kesterton thought it very absurd that Miss Pas- 
ton should have cried on hearing the news until the state 
of her eyes made it impossible for her to come down 
that night. She had grown almost accustomed to hav- 
ing Elfrida in the drawing-room after dinner. She 
looked after her pretty sharply, and scolded her after- 
ward if her demeanor had not been rigid enough to 
satisfy Lady Kesterton’s views of propriety; but the 
possibility of her developing some day into an indepen- 
dent young woman of fortune made Lady Kestertoir 
hold her hand. 

“ Where’s Miss Paston?” said Sir Anthony to his wife, 
in the course of the evening. He spoke in an undertone. 

“Every one is asking me that question,” Lady Kes- 
terton replied irritably. “Crying in the west wing 
over old Mr. Watson’s death — though heaven knows 
why!” 

Sir Anthony smiled, pulled his long mustache, and 
moved away. 

He was not very sorry that Watson was dead. His 
death left Sir Anthony tolerably free to do as he pleased. 
There was no one likely to remonstrate with him now 
on the subject of his conduct, past, present. Or to come. 
Mr. Watson now and then permitted himself that lib- 
erty. There was a parson. Sir Anthony thought, a man 
who might do mischief if he were alive ; but he had 
some reason to think that this man, too, was dead. At 
any rate, he had disappeared for some time from the 
Clergy List. 

Sir Anthony Kesterton had never desired to do any 


THE HEIRESS OF THE FUTURE. 


219 


permanent injury to those with whom he was connected ; 
but he was, above all things, selfish and indolent. He 
hated “scenes;” he hated trouble and criticism and 
change. He had always prided himself on “ never ex- 
plaining anything. ’ Things generally explained them-’ 
selves. Unfortunately, as he was beginning to realize, 
things sometimes explained themselves in a wrong way, 
which needed later on to be set right. He began to 
foresee the speedy necessity of explanations in a certain 
direction, and it had irritated him to think that Wat- 
son might demand them. None of Watson’s succes- 
sors should ever have the power over him that Watson 
had had. 

Thus musing, he quietly left the drawing-room and 
betook himself to the west- wing parlor — a place which 
he seldom visited. He had a fancy to see whether Lady 
Kesterton had been speaking the truth or not. Perhaps 
she had made Elfrida cry by scolding her for some trivial 
misdemeanor. Perhaps this grief for old Watson was a 
mere pretence. He had the curiosity to know the truth. 

The door of the parlor was ajar. There seemed to 
be no light but that of the fire, and indeed, as he soon 
discovered, the sitting-room was empty. He walked 
softly into the room, and at once distinguished a mur- 
mur of voices from the adjoining apartment. Henry 
had gone to bed, and Elfrida was sitting beside him. 
Sir Anthony hesitated for a moment only; then he 
drew near to the door of communication and listened. 

• The first sound that fell upon his ear was a long sob- 
bing sigh. Then Henry’s voice. 

“ Don’t be so grieved, sweetest. If we both believe 
what we have been taught all our lives, we know that 
he has gone home.” 


220 


SIR Anthony's secret. 


“That is all very well to say, dear; but all I can 
think of is what we have lost. ” 

“Isn’t that rather selfish, Elfie?” 

“ I am selfish,” said Elfrida. 

“ No, that you are not. See how good you are to me !” 

“ That is nothing. You are my brother — part of my- 
self. We have very few people to care for, and we 
should be simply unnatural if we did not love one 
another. But Mr. Watson was a real friend, and we 
have not so many friends that we can afford to lose 
them. Oh, yes, I am selfish ; although I should be just 
as sorry for his death if he had never been able to help 
us in any way. Yet I know I am all the more sorry 
because we are helpless and poor and dependent, and 
he is not here to help us. ” 

Henry made a little sound of dissent, and for a min- 
ute or two there was silence. Then the boy said gently : 

“ Well, I see a way out of that too.” 

“ You always do, dear. What is your way?” 

“ If I were well and strong, Elfie, not a poor, helpless 
cripple as I am — yes, yes, I will speak ! — you would not 
feel yourself so lonely and dependent, would you? 
Well, then, in reality you are simply grieving for me 
and my loss ; for if I were as well and strong as you, 
neither of us would look on Mr. Watson’s death as 
anything but a personal misfortune: we should not think 
of it as affecting our destinies. ” 

“ I suppose so!” said Elfrida, a little dubiously. 

‘Then don’t you see that your grief is entirely 
unselfish?” 

“ No, I don’t, you dear boy. I believe that you are 
very clever at sophisticating the truth when you want 
to make me happier. But after all — I don’t want you to 


THE HEIRESS OB’ THE FUTURE, 


221 


think I am sorry only because we shall miss his kind 
offices. No, it is because I shall miss the man— the 
dear, kindly, funny little man, who used to try to be so 
pompous, and invariably broke down in the attempt. 
*He was more like a father to us than anybody we ever 
knew, don’t you think?” 

“Yes — perhaps,” said Henry, with some hesitation. 
Then, half below his breath, “except Sir Anthony.” 

The unseen listener moved involuntarily. What on 
earth did the boy mean? 

“Sir Anthony!” ejaculated Elfrida. 

“ Yes, Sir Anthony. He has done such a tremen- 
dous lot for me, Elfie. And I always liked him. ” 

“ Even although he struck you?” 

“ He did not mean to hurt me — it is nonsense to say 
he did. A child may easily be pushed down and acci- 
dentally hurt. Sir Anthony would never have done 
such a thing as to hurt me on purpose. You confuse 
the cause, if that was the cause, and its effects.” 

“ I don’t care!” said Elfie, decidedly. “ He does not 
seem to me at all like a father — anybody’s father, least 
of all yours ; and I do not like him, and never shall. I 
liked old Mr. Watson much better.” 

“ But I like her^" thought Sir Anthony, as he moved 
away, and went through the long picture-gallery to the 
drawing-room. “And I like the boy too. Curious: 
for I once thought that I never should. Have I not 
done them injury enough? Suppose I settle it all and 
put the matter straight? I should have done it before 
if Henry had not been a cripple. It is Elfrida’s birth- 
day in a few weeks, I know : suppose I put her into her 
rightful position when she is twenty-one — upon her 
birthday night?” 


CHAPTER XX. 


IN MASQUERADE, 

“What can it be?” said Elfrida. 

She was surveying with curiosity and disquiet a let- 
ter which had just been brought to her. It came from 
Mr. Watson’s office in Southborough, but she did not 
know any one who would be likely to write to her in 
that place. 

“ Open it,” said Henry, “ and see.” 

She tore open the big, business-like envelope, and 
found that it contained another envelope, and a note 
from the late Mr. Watson’s son, stating that the inclos- 
ure had been found in his father’s desk. 

The inclosure — a sealed envelope — bore this super- 
scription : 

To be given, at my death, to Miss Elfrida Paston, 
now resident at Kesterton Park, Kesterton, Southshire. 

Then followed a date — more than ten years before. 
Elfrida’s fingers trembled as she opened it. Was it 
possible that she was about to learn some secret that 
had been kept from her for all these years? 

No: the inclosed letter was simple and non-commit- 
tal enough. It contained merely these words : 

If Elfrida Paston should, after my death, fall into 
any great perplexity or trouble, I advise her to seek out 
the Reverend Austin White, formerly curate of St. 
George’s, Bloomsbury, now Vicar of St. Fillans-in-the- 

222 


IN MASQUERADE. 


223 


South, Bishopsgate Street, London, E. C. It is very 
possible that he would be of great use to her. It is my 
earnest request, however, that this intimation be kept 
secret from any but Elfrida Paston and her brother 
Henry. 

These lines were simply signed with the writer’s 
name. 

“ What a curious thing.'’ said Elfrida, in a low voice. 
“Who can this Mr. White be?” 

“A clergyman — and that is all we are meant to 
know,” Henry answered. A flush rose in his pale 
cheek; he looked anxiously at his sister. “ Don’t let it 
trouble you, Elfie. Put it away and forget it, until 
you are, as he says, in any perplexity or trouble ; and 
let us hope that you never will be.” 

“ But does it concern only me? Why was it addressed 
to me?” 

“ Because, dear, ten years ago nobody thought that I 
should live to my present age. Mr. Watson thought 
that you would be the only Paston left.” 

“Ah, Paston, Paston!” cried Elfrida, rising to her 
feet. “ What a simple little name it is, and how little 
we know about it ! Do you remember Lady Kesterton’s 
question — ‘One of the Somersetshire Pastons?’ No, 
we are not Somersetshire nor any other sort of Pastons : 
we have no relations, no history. We are practically 
waifs and strays. ” 

“ We are to know more some day,” said her brother, 
with the look of gentle patience which always had an 
effect on her, even in her bitterest words. “ Sir An- 
thony has told me so. Be patient, Elfie : perhaps there 
is nothing very good to know. ” 

“ I would rather know the worst than be kept in igno- 


224 


SIR ANTHONY’S SECRET. 


ranee. Henry, were there not some relations of onrs 
once in the village? — some people called Derrick, to 
whom mother belonged? What has become of them?” 

“ They have all left the place and gone to Norfolk, 
where they came from, I believe. I asked Terry once 
to find out. • The rumor in the village is that Sir An- 
thony paid them to go.*” 

“ Ah, then, there is something which we might have 
been told, ” said the girl, looking at him wistfully ; “ and 
Sir Anthon)^ was afraid that we should hear it. I 
know now. ” 

She moved away to put the letter into a safe place, 
and Henry was left alone, meditating on the words 
that had been said. He was still alone when a hurried, 
imperative little knock came to the sitting-room door, 
and in answer to his “Come in” Lady Betty made her 
appearance. 

“ Is Elfiehere? Oh, I have such news — such delight- 
ful news for her!” 

“ Not for me too?” 

“ Oh, yes, I know you will be interested. But it is 
more interesting to frivolous girls than to said 

Betty, in her coaxing, flattering way, as she stood 
smiling blithely, with — all the same — a touch of the 
softest pity in her eyes. “ Therefore I ought to tell it 
to Elfie first.” 

“ It is a party or a new frock, ” said Henry, as if speak- 
ing confidentially to the wall. Then, turning again to 
Lady Betty : “ Elfie is in her room. She will be here 
directly. But you can’t wait until she comes, you know. 
Relieve your heart and tell me now.” 

“Well, you’re right, I can’t wait, and I won’t. Sir 
Anthony has promised to give a fancy ball. Lady 


IN MASQUERADE. 


225 


Kesterton tried to make him say no ; but he insisted. 
And it is to be while we a-re here — three weeks on 
Thursday: that will be the eleventh of December. We 
are going to stay all that time!” 

“The eleventh?” said Henry. “Ah, that is the day 
before Elfrida’s birthday. ” 

“ Is it really? How delightful ! It is all the more 
appropriate. Because, you know, I am rather a favor- 
ite of Sir Anthony’s, and I always flatter myself that I 
can wheedle him out of anything ; so on this occasion I 
got him to show me some dear old books in the library, 
and then I got him to talk about the ball and about 
Elfrida. I said, you know, how pretty she was, and 
what a shame it was that she should not get any fun, 
and he quite agreed with me. So we laid a little 
plot — ” 

“You did, you mean.” 

“Well, I did; but he is my accomplice. And Elfie 
is to come to the ball, and I may arrange her dress for 
her: only he wants her to be dressed like the Lady 
Elfrida in the picture-gallery. I have often fancied I 
saw a sort of resemblance, and he says he sees it too. 
And here is the key of the old press in the corner of 
the picture-gallery. He says he believes that Lady 
Elf rida*s. very dress is in that press, and Elfie may wear 
it if she pleases.” 

She ran off to find her friend, dangling the key on 
one of her slender fingers as she ran ; and Henry, again 
left alone, knitted his brows with a sensation, half of 
bewilderment, half of fear. 

Was the matter quite so simple as it seemed to Lady 
Betty? Was there any reason why that particular day — 
the eve of Elfrida’s twenty-first birthday — should have 

15 


226 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


been chosen for a grand ball in which she was to appeal 
in the costume of the celebrated Kesterton beauty o? 
the time when George the Third was king? Sir An- 
thony was not a man to concern himself about trifles, 
save for an exceedingly good reason. Why should he 
aid and abet Lady Betty Stormont in tricking Elfie out 
in borrowed raiment, and by so doing probably bring 
down Lady Kesterton ’s heaviest wrath upon her head? 
There seemed to Henry, in spite of his habit of looking 
on the sunniest side of things, something sinister, some- 
thing ominous, in this mode of proceeding. It was, of 
course, easily conceivable that Sir Anthony did not 
know that the twelfth of December was Elfrida’s birth- 
day, and that the date of the ball had nothing to do 
with her at all ; but Henry’s fine and sensitive organi- 
zation had begun to perceive the presence of a threaten- 
ing something in the air — a mystery, a catastrophe, he 
knew not what, but something vaguely amiss. 

It troubled him because he had found more than once 
that it had been followed by disaster. A chronic inva- 
lid is sometimes more conscious than healthy people 
of the approach of disease, or death, or misfortune. 
And perhaps Henry had inherited a touch of the clair- 
voyant faculty which his grandmother was rumored to 
have brought in ancient days almost to the point of 
divination and prophecy. 

Elfrida came in presently with flushed cheeks and 
shining eyes : she had had her conference with Betty, 
and no premonitions of evil disturbed her mind. She 
was young, pretty, ready for enjoyment: and the pros- 
pect of appearing, beautifully dressed, at a ball was 
truly alluring to her. 

“ Betty has told you?” she said. 


IN MASQUERADE. 


227 


“ Yes. ” He forced himself to smile. “ When are yon 
going to investigate the treasures of the press?” 

“ This afternoon. It is Saturday, you know. Betty 
and I will dress up and exhibit ourselves for your 
benefit. ” 

“ Undisturbed by vagrant men,” commented Henry, 
with a rather mischievous look. “ Even Philip and his 
bosom friend have gone to the I suppose. ” 

“ I suppose so. At least I don’t know what you mean 
by Philip’s bosom friend,” said Elfie, rather consciously. 

But she did not stay to hear the name : she knew well 
enough that it was Lord Beaulieu whom Henry meant. 

“What stores of things for ‘dressing up!’” sighed 
Lady Betty that afternoon, as Terry and Elfrida helped 
her to ransack the two oak chests of old, forgotten gar- 
ments which were stowed away in dim corners of the 
picture-gallery. “ One would think they had never 
been routed out for fifty years or more. ” 

“ Dear heart, but they are musty!” said the somewhat 
disgusted Terry. “And they’ll want airing before you 
young ladies put them on.” 

“ They are strong of camphor and lavender, and san- 
dal-wood, and all sorts of nice things,” said Elfrida. 
“ I don’t mind the mustiness one bit. What a deli- 
cious brocade! Look at it, how it shimmers ! Now if I 
could wear that!” 

“Wait a minute,” said Lady Betty, with rather an 
intent look at the brocade. “ Let me look at something 
here — yes, it is as I thought. Elfie, that’s the very 
identical pattern : you have hit on Lady Elfrida’s own 
brocade!” 

Elfrida ran to the picture : it was one that startled 
and repelled her at first^ and then drew her with a sin- 


228 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


g^iilar charm. The likeness that she recognized, with- 
out fully comprehending, had a curious effect upon her. 
But at this moment she looked at the brocade rather 
than at the delicate, listening face ; and then she smiled 
with pleasure. 

“ Yes,” she said, in rather a low voice, “ it is the very 
same. ” 

“And here is some lace,” said Lady Betty, eagerly. 
“ Now run away to your own room and try the things 
on, Elfie ; that is the brocade ; and here — oh, here is the 
rose-colored satin petticoat. You will be quite perfect 
if the dress fits. I must come with you, and Terry too. ” 

And so it happened that as the dusk of the autumnal 
day was gathering, Philip Winyates, entering the pict- 
ure-gallery on his way to visit Henry, found himself 
confronted by a bravely clad fantastic figure that looked 
as if it had stepped straight out of the frame of the 
picture near which it stood. It was Elfrida, who had 
been left there for a minute while Lady Betty ran back 
to her room for some forgotten ornament ; and the old- 
fashioned dress so much increased her likeness to the 
painted Lady Elfrida of 1785 that Philip could not re- 
press a sudden start. 

“ Is it really you, Elfrida?” 

“Me, or a' ghost,” she answered, laughing rather 
tremulously ; for there was something in the likeness 
between herself and the dead woman whose clothes she 
wore which rather weighed upon her nerves. “ What 
do you think of it?” 

“It is curiously like^'" murmured Philip, with a 
strange sort of apprehension in his eyes. 

“Yes, is it not? Of course the dress makes one look 
so like the picture. You see we found it all: the rose- 


IN MASQUERADE. 


229 

colored petticoat and the brocade sacque — cream-col- 
ored, embroidered with differently shaded flowers and 
rose-colored knots of ribbon. Lady Betty is trying to 
find some pearls for me. You see she wears a pearl 
necklace in the picture; and then I shall be — perfect.” 

“ You are that already,” Philip whispered. 

There was a queer little thrill of admiration, of long- 
ing, of suppressed emotion, in his voice. Perhaps El- 
frida did not notice it : perhaps she refused to attend ; 
at any rate, she went on tranquilly : 

“ And of course I shall have to have my hair powdered. 
It is for the fancy ball, you know ; but you must not 
tell anybody, Mr. Winyates: it is to be a secret. Have 
the other people come back yet? If so, I must go away. ” 

“ No, nobody will be at home for the next hour or two. 
I left early. But where did you get the dress, if you 
don’t mind my asking?” 

“ Sir Anthony wishes me to wear it. He sent the key 
of the oak chest by Lady Betty, to see if we could find 
it.” She turned again to the picture and contemplated 
it steadily. Perhaps she did not altogether want to 
observe the expression of utter bewilderment which was 
making itself visible on Philip’s features. “ You should 
go as Montrose, or Strafford, or Charles I.,” she went 
on quietly. “ You have their cast of countenance.” 

“ I hope I am not quite so unfortunate as they, ” he 
said, with a laugh. 

He was trying to recover from his surprise. She 
glanced at him slightly. 

“There are many ways of being unfortunate,” she 
said, pulling at one of her lace frills, and wondering 
where Betty could be ; “ and you have certainly a rather 
tragic kind of face — “ 


230 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ Belied by my history.” 

“I don’t know.” She gave him a keener look than 
before. “ You know there are tragedies in the lives of 
most people — failures of hope, of aspiration and effort — 
which are not written out in plain hand. But you bear 
more traces of a history than most people.” 

“ And pray what is my failure, or my tragedy?” said 
Philip, a little piqued. 

“ How can I tell? Effort, I should think,” she an- 
swered, with a smile. • 

“ Effort? Failure of effort? I do not at all under- 
vStand.” 

“ Of course not. I was only talking nonsense. What 
should I know about it? I was only thinking that life 
must be very quiet in this little country place, and that 
you must have suffered — or perhaps failed — forgive me 
for saying so — before you could have allowed yourself 
to drift so listlessly down the stream.” 

A dull red flush rose to Philip’s brow as he listened. 
How was it that this child had laid her finger uner- 
ringly on the one sore spot in his life, the failure of his 
earlier aspirations, the gradual content with the lan- 
guor of idleness? And how had it come about? 

“You are right,” he said, with some emotion, “more 
right than you suspect. I have been — I am — a failure 
in the world. I have written a little, bu4: I have not 
done half what I might have done, and I have worked 
for my own pleasure only. You can understand, you 
can sympathize. I have never met with a woman 
before — ” 

“Betty! Betty!” cried Elfrida, catching sight of a 
figure flying past the door that led to bor rqoin, “ I 
am here! come!” 


IN MASQUER ADK. 


23T 


“ In a moment, ” said a clear, distinct voice. “ I broke 
the string and had to pick all the beads up. Wait 
where you are. ” 

“ No, I will come to you,” said Elfrida hurriedly, but 
as she turned to pick up her train, Philip laid his hand 
softly upon her wrist. 

“ One moment, Elfrida. I did not mean to offend you. 
But will you not listen to me?” 

She paused and looked at him. She had always liked 
his face : she had thought it refined, melancholy, gen- 
tle. She had also thought it of late somewhat irreso- 
lute and weak.; but there was a new light in his soft 
brown eyes, a new expression of determination about 
the set of his lips, which intimidated her a little. 

“ Why should I listen just now?” she said. “ I am 
thinking about balls — and chiffons. It is not the time 
for a discussion on character or fortune.” 

“ But there are some things that will not be left 
unsaid. There are some things which a woman must 
know in the long run : why should they not be told at 
once? Elfrida, I love you — I love you with my whole 
heart. Could you not — some day — be happy as my 
wife?” 

Had a bombshell exploded at Elfrida’s feet — had the 
earth opened and threatened to swallow her up — she 
could not have been much more surprised. 

The instinct by which a mature woman can tell 
whether a man admires her long before he has put his 
admiration into words is not fully developed all at on.ce, 
and Elfrida was as yet unused to love-making. Philip 
Winyates had always seemed old to her — a man who 
used to teach her and scold her in her baby days — it Was 
absurd to think of his asking her to be his wife. In 


232 


SIR Anthony's secret. 


her perturbation of mind, she began to laugh hurriedly, 
but the laughter had within it a sound of tears. 

“It is impossible, Philip,” she said. “Oh, quite 
impossible!” 

“ But why, Elfrida? Could you not care for me?” 

“ Oh, not in that way. As a friend, yes ; but nothing 
else.” 

“Why say so in that decided way? Think a little; 
take time. I don’t want to hurry you. Is it because I 
have been so idle? Have done so little in the world? 
With you to inspire me, Elfrida, I feel as if I could 
conquer anything.” 

“ Oh, but it is no use my thinking or taking time, or 
anything of that sort,” said Elfrida, in her outspoken 
fashion. “ I could never care for you. And besides, I 
cannot believe — it is not possible — ” 

“ Ah, don’t say that you don’t believe in my love for 
you. ” 

“But how can I? You have known me for a few 
weeks practically — that is all — and — may I say every- 
thing? — you have cared for some one else for a great 
many years — at least, if all the stories that I have heard 
are true. Your old love cannot have died so sud- 
denly.” 

“ It has been dead for years. Oh, believe that, Elfie, 
at any rate. I know whom you mean. I have kept up 
an old friendship, and that is all. I ceased to love her 
many years ago — when she gave me up to marry a 
richer man.” 

She gave him a quick, searching look ; then shook her 
head sadly. 

“ I am glad that you do not care for her. I was told 
you did — still. But that makes no difference to me. 


IN MASQUERADE. 233 

I do not love you ; and if I do not love you, how can I 
be your wife?” 

“ You might learn to love me, Elfie. Will you not 
try?” 

She sighed and shook her head. 

“ No,” she said softly, “ I cannot even promise that. 
I can promise nothing but to be your friend.” 

“Here are the pearls,” cried Betty, entering with 
a somewhat whirlwind effect upon the scene. “ Put 
them on, Elfie: and now — ticnu look at her, Mr. Win- 
yates, and say if she is not absolutely perfect!” 


CHAPTER XXL 


Philip’s resolve. 

Friendship is a very good thing in its way, but it is a 
very poor substitute for love. So, at least, Philip re- 
flected as he passed out of Elfrida’s presence and made 
his way to the outer air, where he knew that he could 
think over his position with greater security from inter- 
ruption than in the house. For during the recent irrup- 
tion of visitors Phil’s freedom of action had been some- 
what interfered with. Sir Anthony had exacted from 
him more companionship than usual. He liked to have 
some one with whom he could rail against the fashions 
and follies of the world when he was in an ill-humor ; 
and of late he had been very captious and apparently 
very dependent on Phil’s society. Then, when he came 
out of the library, there would be riding parties in 
which he was expected to join, or entertainments that 
he had to help in organizing ; for, as a matter of fact, 
and as he reflected with considerable self-scorn, he occu- 
pied the position of an elder son, without an elder son’s 
privileges on prospects. His earlier duties, as agent 
and manager of the estate, had gradually slipped into 
other hands : his time was taken up by social duties, by 
dilettante conversations with Sir Anthony, by his own 
literary work. Sir Anthony gave him an income, and 
made his life easy for him ; but — he almost started as 
he thought of it — ten years of his manhood had drifted 

234 


Philip’s resolve. 


235 


by and left him as he was when he began — a mere 
hanger-on, after all ; a man without a position, without 
a future, and with an easy, but not a particularly en- 
joyable life. And for what? What had he gained? 

He went out in the gathering twilight, and trod the 
country roads in the dark, damp November air, through 
which a fine and penetrating rain had begun to fall, 
with a sensation of mingled discomfort ahd savage 
pleasure. It was something new to him to feel discon- 
tented with his surroundings, and there was a certain 
relief to be found in bodily exertion, even of a rather 
disagreeable kind. To plunge through the mud of a 
country road in late autumn, with rain beating in your 
face, and a raw wind blowing which makes you cold in 
spite of your overcoat with its turned-up collar, and the 
comparatively warm refuge of your coat pockets for your 
benumbed hands, is perhaps rather a dreary kind of 
satisfaction; but when you are in an aggrieved and 
conscience-stricken state of mind, it is not a bad way 
of working off your vexation of spirit. Wind, rain, and 
cold seemed rather pleasant than otherwise to Philip, 
as he -meditated on his own shortcomings, and on El- 
frida’s refusal to listen |^to his proposal. The world 
had never seemed so black to him since the day when 
Beatrice Larose became Lady Beltane — a day which he 
ever since considered the gloomiest of his life. 

He began to look back to the years that were gone, 
and to wonder whether he might not have won Elfrida’s 
heart if he had spent them differently — a vain conject- 
ure, but one which people are apt to make in similar 
circumstances. Her criticism of him seemed to have 
flashed new light over all the past. He thought of his 
depression when Beatrice jilted him, and it now seemed 


236 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


to him unmanly. It was this depression which had 
caused him to accept Sir Anthony’s offer, and to sink 
into the anomalous position which he now filled. “ Lit- 
tle better than that of a 7naitre d' hotels" he said to him- 
self bitterly, “with the duties of secretary and footman 
superadded. No wonder Elfrida despises me! She 
lives in this house, too, but she does good honest work 
for her living, while I loiter — and dangle — and feast — 
and flirt — bah ! I am sick of it all. “ And he strode on 
furiously through the darkness. 

The remembrance of his literary work, successful as 
it had been, brought him no comfort. He knew that 
it was not as good as it might have been. The listless- 
ness and luxury of his life had affected the quality of 
his work. He might have done better. It gave him 
no satisfaction to think of the praise which his work 
had received, when he remembered the defects of which 
he perhaps alone was conscious. 

Yes, he had wasted his life. If he had manfully re- 
fused Sir Anthony’s proposals, gone to London, and bat- 
tled for himself as other men had done, he might by 
this time have achieved independence and, possibly, 
success. He would not even have lost the chance of 
making Elfrida ’s acquaintance or of befriending Henry, 
for he could have spent his holidays at Kesterton Park, 
and seen the brother and sister at their well-earned 
times of relaxation. “ She would have respected me 
then,” he said to himself, with an odd constriction of 
the throat. “ She would not have said that I looked 
like a man who had failed — God help me! I have 
failed, and what is there left to live for now?” 

Was it yet too late to retrieve the past? Little by 
little, as he pursued his way, he pictured to himself 


PHILIP S RESOLVE. 


237 


some quiet room in London, where, faring hardly, and 
toiling from morn to night, he might reinstate himself 
in his own self-respect, and join the crowd of busy 
workers, whose lives, he humbly owned to himself, 
were worthier than his own. And yet, in the world’s 
eyes, his life had been blameless enough. He had 
spent his days with Sir Anthony in scholarly, refined 
seclusion, or in the enjoyment of simple and innocent 
country pleasures. What was there with which others 
could find fault? There was just this — though it had been 
left for Elfrida’s courage and straightforwardness to 
point it out — the life was not one of effort and achieve- 
ment, but of repose; and to a man of Philip’s age and 
Philip’s ability it was therefore an unworthy and effem- 
inate life. 

Looking back to the beginnings of things, Philip 
tried to trace the influences that had been at work upon 
his mind. The present result seemed to him to be due 
chiefly to his relations with Lady Beltane. Her treat- 
ment of him had stunned and unnerved him, but he 
was recovering from the shock, and was beginning to 
think of new work when she first came to the Park, 
shortly after Sir Anthony’s marriage with Miss Lester. 
He remembered that he had at first treated her coldly, 
but that she had at once striven to bring him once more 
to her feet. And she had succeeded — to a certain ex- 
tent. He thought of the' laughter with which she had 
treated his higher ideals, and of the imperiousness with 
which she had bidden him remain at Kesterton Park 
when he once mooted the point of a change of resi- 
dence. She did not want him too near her, Phil said, 
to himself, with a bitter laugh. She flattered him by 
saying that he might lead a far more distinguished, 


238 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


refined, and scholarly life at Kesterton than in town ; 
and that she wanted him to be different from other men 
— not drawn into the vortex of London society and 
spoilt by the coarse admiration of London critics. He 
had thought these sentiments admirable at the time. 
And then she had shown him how charming it was that 
he should be at Kesterton Park when she came to visit 
her cousin, and that it was easier to see much of him 
when he was there than if he lived in chambers in 
some smoky, dusty part of Bloomsbury (for instance) ; 
and that he would be very foolish (besides displeasing 
her very much) if he gave iip his present position for 
any nonsensical reasons about liberty and indepen- 
dence. So Philip had remained at Kesterton Park and 
grown used to a life which was easy and luxurious and 
unexacting, but not adapted for the furtherance of 
higher aims. 

And what had he got in return? Merely the privi- 
lege of being Lady Beltane’s accredited cavalier e ser- 
vente^ of being tacitly considered her especial attend- 
ant, and allowed to escort her on her walks and drives 
when she was at Kesterton. He knew that a great 
deal lay between himself and Beatrice that was best 
unspoken : it seemed to him an unnecessarily dangerous 
thing to disregard the barriers which law and morality 
and convention had alike setup. There had been days 
when he did not think so — when he had fretted against 
the limitations of his lot and hers, and had striven to 
make her set them at defiance, in thought if not in fact. 
Lady Beltane had been provokingly discreet. It was not 
that her conscience was more sensitive than his — in- 
deed, she would have gone far greater lengths had he 
but encouraged her to do so ; but she had no vrish to 


PHIL1I’'S RESOLVE. 


239 


g^ive lip or even to compromise her position ; and she 
was exceedingly careful in guarding against the tongue 
of slander. So careful indeed was she, that Philip had 
come, not unreasonably, to the conclusion that she did 
not feel any affection for him at all. And hence it did 
not cause him much anxiety, when he reflected, in the 
course of that winter evening’s walk, that his old 
“ friendship” with Lady Beltane must now be broken 
off. It was — in the ordinary sense of the word — inno- 
cent enough ; but there was something in it that was 
not compatible with the love of a fresh young girl like 
Elfrida. 

True, Elfrida had refused him. But he did not de- 
spair for all that. His heart rose up with an irrepres- 
sible hopefulness as he thought of her downcast, blush- 
ing face, her tremulous, agitated words. He felt almost 
certain that he could win her — if there was no one else 
in the way. And surely there could not be anybody 
else. AVhom had she seen? With whom could she fall 
in love? He never thought seriously of Lord Beaulieu, 
although the young peer’s admiration for Elfrida had- 
several times been commented on in his hearing; but 
he deemed it out of the question that Beaulieu would 
make love to “ a nobody ” like Elfie, when Lady Betty 
Stormont was in the house. What, though she despised 
him now, and thought that he did not live as manly and 
strenuous a life as a man ought to do? He would show 
her what he was capable of for her sake. He would 
gain her admiration and her love — at any rate he would 
strive to be worthy of both. 

And so thinking, he turned back to Kesterton, feel- 
ing much the better for this long communion with 
himself. 


240 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


What he did not reckon upon was a woman’s love of 
power. Lady Beltane might perhaps think lightly of 
his love, but she was not very likely to be content to 
have no influence on his life. It was in his estimate of 
her character, and of the characteristics of the sex at 
large, that Philip was mistaken. 

He was too late for dinner, and made the lateness of 
the hour and the dampness of his clothes an excuse for 
not appearing in the drawing-room. Lights, chatter, 
music, card-games seemed odious to him. He began 
to put his papers in order, and to wonder what Sir An- 
thony would say when he resigned his position at the 
Park. 

It happened, on the morning after that long and 
somewhat dreary evening walk, he was sent for by Sir 
Anthony about nine o’clock, in order to talk over the 
terms of a business-letter which Philip had undertaken 
to write. 

The discussion lasted only a short time, but it served 
as an introduction to what Phil wanted to say. He 
had been summoned to Sir Anthony’s dressing-room, 
where the baronet, in gorgeous Oriental garb, sat be- 
fore a glowing fire, sipping chocolate and glancing 
now and then at a newspaper. Sir Anthony was sel- 
dom seen in public before noon, and — perhaps all the 
more for that reason — he liked an early chat with 
Philip when Phil was disengaged. Generally, how- 
ever, Phil was in a hurry to be off. On this occasion 
Sir Anthony noticed that he lingered, after the busi- 
ness talk was done, as if he had still something to say. 

Sir Anthony never asked questions. He only noticed 
with interest, and even with amusement, the fact that 
Phil was restless, unquiet, and apparently irresolute. 


PHILIP'S RESOLVE. 


241 


He wandered about the room somewhat aimlessly, ex- 
amined the ornaments on the mantel-piece and the 
pictures on the walls. Sir Anthony’s dressing-room 
was a very ornate apartment. But Phil did not seem to 
know very well what he was talking- about, and lapsed 
into silences which were decidedly incomprehensible. 

“ I have something to say,” he remarked at last, with 
some abruptness. 

“Ah? I am always glad to hear your observations, 
my dear Phil,” said the baronet, suavely, “but don’t 
you think you might make them sitting down almost 
as well as standing?” 

Phil laughed a little and took a chair. 

“ I stood,” he said frankly, “because I felt some em- 
barrassment. You have been always very good to me, 
and I do not want to do anything that you would not 
approve of, but — at the same time — ” 

“ At the same time there is something that you want 
to do which I shall not like, you mean?” 

“ I suppose I do mean that. Perhaps you will not 
dislike the proposition after all. I have made up my 
mind that I ought not to lead the aimless and idle life 
that I am leading now. I want to go up to London.” 

“ There is nothing to prevent you. Take a month.” 

“ You misunderstand me. I want to give up my post 
here and live in London — permanently.” 

There was a moment’s pause. Sir Anthony’s nostrils 
and lips whitened a little, as they always did when he 
was in anger. But it was in a perfectly smooth and 
passionless voice that he said at last — 

“ And may I ask how you intend to live when you 
get to London? I was not aware that you had any 
great source of income apart from the salary I give you. ” 
16 


242 


SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET. 


Philip’s face flushed. There was something slightly 
offensive in Sir Anthony’s intonation. He also paused 
for a moment before he replied. 

“ I intend to work, sir. I believe that I can get lit- 
erary work to do. I have had offers of the kind at dif- 
ferent times. Hitherto I have declined them all, but I 
think that they might be open to me still. ” 

“ Oh, no doubt fame and fortune are before you,” said 
Sir Anthony, sardonically. “ Go by all means. But I 
thought you enough of a man to know that London 
streets are not paved with gold. For a man between 
thirty and forty to begin life over again as a literary 
hack seems to me a poor business. However, you must 
take your own way. I must say that I think your life 
here need be neither idle nor aimless. But that is 
your own lookout. ” 

Philip was surprised at the amount of feeling that had 
crept into his cousin’ s voice. . Sir Anthony was not in 
the habit of displaying the softer emotions. But it 
was true that he had always been fond, in his way, of 
Philip Winyates; and the younger man’s conscience 
smote him as he remembered the many ways in which 
Sir Anthony had been good to him ever since his boy- 
ish days. 

'‘Cousin Anthony,” he said, using an old form of 
address which had not passed his lips for many years, 
“ I owe all that has been best and pleasantest in my life 
to you. I would not think of leaving you if I could be 
of any use. But you know that of late the manage- 
ment of things has drifted out of my hands. I have 
almost no duties — no occupation, save to make myself 
agreeable to your guests. Don’t you see that it is time 
I did something for myself? I am in a most anomalous 


PHILIP'S RESOLVE. 


243 


position here, and I cannot but believe that if you think 
the matter over — ” 

“There, that will do,” said Sir Anthony peevishly. 
“ I made no objection, did I? If I think you a fool, I 
suppose I am entitled to my own opinion. I should be 
better satisfied if you gave me ybur real reason instead 
of trying to cloak it in an absurd farrago of words about 
literary work and a career.” 

Philip was startled. “ I do not quite know what you 
mean, sir,” he said, with some hesitation. 

“Don’t play the hypocrite, Phil,” said his cousin, 
almost angrily. “ Do you suppose I don’t see what this 
all amounts to? Of course a woman is at the bottom 
of it — she always is. Only I thought you had more 
common-sense. ” 

“I don’t altogether deny it,” said Philip, with a 
heightened color. “ A woman /las influenced me. But 
the influence is for good and not for ill — ” 

He was interrupted by Sir Anthony’s harsh, cackling 
laugh. “ He ! he ! he ! Very good. Very good indeed. 
For good, not for ill. Well, it is the first time that my 
Lady Beltane ever exerted herself to such purpose — ” 

'' IV/ia^ /'* cried Phil. “Who — what on earth do you 
mean? Lady Beltane has had nothing to say to this.” 

Sir Anthony stopped laughing and looked at him. 
“ Nothing?” 

“ She knows nothing about it. I have not exchanged 
a word with her on the subject. She has nothing to do 
with my movements.” 

“ Times are changed, then. There was a day — But 
come, tell me who the woman is,” said Sir Anthony, in 
a more good-humored tone, “ and then I shall perhaps un- 
derstand matters better. Who is the fair unknown?” 


244 


SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET. 


“ It is — Elfrida,” said Phil. 

“ Elfrida — Elfr — Good heavens, Phil, you don’t 
mean that?” 

“I do, indeed, said Philip, warmly. “For I love 
her, and I want to work for her sake, in the hope of 
winning her. Is there anything remarkable in it ” — 
with gathering wrath — “ that you look so concerned and 
so — so — amazed?” 

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Sir Anthony, falling 
back in his chair, and beginning to laugh softly in a 
manner that showed him to be very much amused. “ I 
was only thinking that when Lady Beltane knew of 
this new turn of events there would be the devil to pay, 
that’s all.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE LAST CHANCE. 

Philip left his cousin’s presence in a somewhat irri- 
tated frame of mind. There was no more serious con- 
versation between them. Sir Anthony continued to 
laugh in a manner which annoyed Phil, who could not 
see any particular reason for amusement; and it was 
not to be wondered at that he quitted the dressing-room 
abruptly at last, and with a brow which betokened 
offence. Sir Anthony was, however, in no way dis- 
turbed by Philip’s ill-humor. He resumed the perusal 
of his newspaper and the consumption of his chocolate ; 
but ceased these occupations every now and then in 
order to chuckle softly to himself. There was evidently 
something in the state of the case which appealed very 
strongly to the sense of the ludicrous. 

He was still laughing when Lady Kesterton entered 
the room on her way downstairs. She always visited 
him before breakfast, inquired after his health, and 
imprinted a frosty conjugal kiss upon his brow. “ You 
seem amused,” she said to him, as he looked up at her 
with the cynical smile lifting his gray mustache and 
giving life to his lustreless dark gray eyes. 

“I am exceedingly amused,” said Sir Anthony. “I 
have been the recipient of a lover’s confidences this 
morning, and it is not often that I find myself in so 
interesting a position. I feel positively flattered. ” 

245 


246 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ Has your valet been confiding in you?” said Lady 
Kesterton, in a slightly contemptuous tone. 

“ A person much superior to my valet — Philip Win- 
yates.” 

“ Philip Winyates!” Lady Kesterton raised her eye- 
brows and looked out of the window. 

“ You will never guess the object of his affections,” 
said her husband, enjoying her perplexity. “ Have we 
not believed that Phil’s heart was bespoken — that his 
love was as that of the moth for the star, and so on? 
Prepare yourself for a shock, my dear Eva. And per- 
haps you had better prepare Lady Beltane’s mind as 
well.” 

“ Lady Beltane has nothing to do with Mr. Winyates’ 
affairs,” said Lady Kesterton with dignity. 

“ No, indeed she has not — no7u. He has fallen in love 
with Elfrida Paston, so Beatrice may wear the willow. ” 

“ I think it is hardly good taste to allude to Beatrice 
in that way,” said his wife frigidly. “ I cannot see the 
use of recalling an old, boy and girl, foolish love affair, 
which she has quite forgotten. And whether she has 
forgotten it or not, her conduct has always been per- 
fectly correct. ” 

“ Oh, quite so, ” said Sir Anthony, taking up his news- 
paper again. “ No doubt she will be delighted. I would 
tell her about it at once if I were you. ” 

“ That girl. Miss Paston, is a very designing creat- 
ure,” said Lady Kesterton “ But I should not be sorry 
to see her married to Philip — ” 

“ Because you think you would then be rid of them 
both, eh?” said Sir Anthony dryly. “You are mis- 
taken there. If she married Philip, the two would 
probably continue to live in the house as they do now. 


THE LAST CHANCE. 


247 


But set your mind at rest ; I do not mean to promote 
the marriage. I have other views. ” 

“ Other views? For whom?” 

“ For Elfrida, my dear. Yes, I interest myself a good 
deal in her fortunes, as you know. But it is no use 
discussing the matter at this early hour in the day. 
Had you not better go down to breakfast?” 

Lady Kesterton retired in some discomfiture ; and Sir 
Anthony remained alone to laugh over his newspaper 
as if the news that he had imparted were of the most 
singularly diverting kind. 

Phil was in the breakfast-room when Lady Kesterton 
came down, and she noticed at once that he looked 
vexed and ' anxious, and also that he kept away from 
Beatrice. Lady Beltane was not often downstairs so 
early ; and as she talked and laughed her cousin exam- 
ined her critically, as one woman will often examine 
her dearest friend or nearest relation, and came to the 
conclusion that Beatrice made a mistake in showing her- 
self in the unbecoming morning light. The wintry 
sunshine found out all the weak points in Lady Bel- 
tane’s appearance — the reddened and roughened skin, 
the crow’s-feet round the eyes, the wrinkles in her 
brow. If Philip were really transferring his affections 
to a younger woman he would not be easily lured back 
to Beatrice’s side, especially when Beatrice was ageing 
so fast and looked so terribly plain. 

Then she wondered whether she had better say any- 
thing to her on the subject or not. She was very well 
aware that Beatrice looked on Philip as her property, 
and liked to have him tied to her apron-strings. It 
would certainly be a very unpleasant discovery to her 
that Philip was tired of his bondage. Lady Kesterton 


248 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


would have continued to feel sorry for her cousin if 
Beatrice had behaved with discretion. But it unfort- 
unately happened that morning that Lady Beltane’s 
nerves were less evenly-balanced than usual. She had 
received the announcement of her husband’s approach- 
ing arrival at Kesterton Park, and she did not like it. 
Then Philip had vexed her by his non-appearance the 
night before, and by his indifferent manner that morn- 
ing. She showed her pique by an assumption of heed- 
less mirth, and by reckless flirtation with a man who 
was staying in the house, and in truth she annoyed her 
hostess so much that when Lady Kesterton carried her 
off to her boudoir after breakfast it was with the char- 
itable but rather ominous desire to say something “that 
would do her good. ” 

When Philip came in to luncheon he was a trifle sur- 
prised to hear that Lady Beltane was indisposed — was 
lying down in her own room ; but he surmised nothing 
amiss. Indeed, he was somewhat relieved to find that 
he was not obliged to meet her. He did not acknowl- 
edge that she had the slightest claim on him ; and yet 
he knew that he would have to tell her, sooner or later, 
that he had fallen in love with Elfrida Paston, and he 
anticipated rather a stormy scene. But he felt quite 
confident that although she might be vexed. Lady Bel- 
tane would never “ overstep the bounds. ” 

He went out again, and after a brisk walk with a 
friend returned home in the fading light of a Novem- 
ber afternoon. Phil left the road and plunged into the 
Park. Here the light was dimmer, and the mossy 
ground was damper underfoot, but the air was wonder- 
fully warm and pleasant for the time of the year, and 
Phil loitered in his walk, enjoying the freshness of the 


THE LAST CHANCE. !24g 

scents that rose from the moist earth, and the sweetness 
of the robin’s evening song. 

It was with a thrill of amazement, almost of disgust, 
that he recognized the figure of a woman, well-known 
to him, among the fir-tree stems. What brought 
Lady Beltane out at that hour? Surely — surely — she 
was not waiting and watching for him! What did it 
mean? Had Sir Anthony told her of the morning’s 
conference, and was she furious already? If Phil 
could have found a pretext for running away at that 
moment he would have been only too glad to embrace 
the opportunity. But she had seen him — she was 
advancing toward him, and retreat was impracticable. 
He must put the best face upon matters, and get her 
back to the hoUvSe as quickly as possible. 

‘‘Good-evening,” he said, lifting his hat, and speak- 
ing with the utmost lightne.ss. “ Pleasant time for a 
walk, don’t you think? May I have the pleasure of 
escorting you back to the house?” 

Up to this moment he had not seen her face distinctly, 
because her back was to the sunset ; but now he was 
close to her, and could look straight into her eyes. 
vShe paused before replying, and he knew by that silence 
and by her face that the interview was not likely to be 
a pleasant one. She was deathly pale, and there were 
dark shadows beneath her eyes. Philip’s heart sank 
within him. 

“I came out to meet you,” she began, in muffled 
tones, strangely unlike the ringing accents that usually 
fell from her lips. “ I knew you often came this way. 
I — I wanted to speak to you. ” 

“Yes,” said Philip quietly. 

The monosyllable sounded very bald and very unsym- 


250 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


pathetic, but he could not think of anything else to say. 
If she were going to mention Elfrida, it would be well 
for him to be upon his guard. 

But she was either more wily or more sincere than he 
knew. She laid one hand upon his arm, and kept it 
there while she spoke. 

“ Oh, Phil,” she said simply, “ I am in such trouble.” 

“ I am very sorry,” he answered confusedly — for what 
else could he say? “ I hope it is nothing serious — noth- 
ing veiy wrong.” 

“ Oh, no, it is nothing serious,” she answered, with a 
bitter little laugh ; “ it is a very commonplace thing that 
I am going to tell you ; and yet I feel as if I should 
break my heart.” 

Philip listened — compunctious and afraid. What was 
she going to say? 

“ Phil — Beltane comes to-morrow.” 

“ Oh. ” He had nearly said “ Is that all?” but caught 
himself up in time. “ I hope you are not grieving over 
his arrival,” he said with a smile. 

“Yes, it is just that. I can’t bear to think of it. I 
am in earnest, Phil. I’ve got to the end of my tether — 
I .can bear nothing more. I can’t live with Beltane any 
longer — I am miserable— wretched — the most wretched 
woman in the world. Oh, Phil, help me — no one can 
help me but you.” And then she burst into tears, hon- 
est, unaffected tears, and let her head drop on his 
shoulder. 

“ Beatrice,” he said — he was very much distressed by 
this self-revelation ; he had never thought her capable 
of feeling so deeply or of speaking out so passionately — 
“ Beatrice — don’t say this!” 

“Why shouldn’t I say it?” she sobbed. “ I have not 


THE LAST CHANCE. 


251 


said so much before because I thought that I could bear 
it ; and I wanted to be a good woman, after all ; bvit I 
can bear nothing more. I haven’t the strength, Phil. 
I hate that man — I have hated him ever since I married 
him. There is only one man I ever loved. You know, 
Phil — you know. And I have come to him to help me 
— to save me — to take me away from the misery of it 
all, and help me to forget that I was ever false — false 
to the man I loved. Oh, Phil, don’t be hard upon me 
now.” 

“ I am not hard, Beatrice,” he said, under his breath. 
“ I want to help you — to save you from yourself. ” 

“ You have said a thousand times,” she went on, pite- 
ously, “ that you loved me, and that you would sacrifice 
all the world for me. I don’t ask you to sacrifice much, 
Philip. It is I that have something to sacrifice. In- 
deed, Phil, I am not a wicked woman. I gave you up 
once ; but I was only a girl. I did not know what it 
was to love — I did not understand. I love you now. ” 

“ But I, Beatrice — I—” 

He stopped short; he did not know how to go on. 
She was quick to fathom his meaning; she raised her 
head from his shoulder and looked up into his face. 

“Phil — don’t say that you don’t love me now!” she 
cried. , 

He could not say it. Perhaps he was weak ; but it 
was a difficult thing to say. His face, however, spoke 
for him ; his attitude, unresponsive and rigid, spoke for 
him too. There was a moment’s silence, and then she 
flung herself away from him in a passion of rage and 
scorn. 

“ Is this the faith that you have sworn to me so often? 

Is this th© love that you used to bocast of? Oh, I see 


252 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


how it is — you have learnt to care for some one else — 
some one younger than I ; some one who will not bring 
shame and contempt upon you, as I should do. I 
thought you were faithful, Philip — I trusted you ! But 
men are all alike; I hate them all. I hate you, too ” — 
with sudden fierceness — “ hate you as much as I loved 
you once.” And then she broke forth again in passion- 
ate sobs. “Oh, Phil, I’ll forgive you if you say it is 
not true.” 

“ I cannot say that, Beatrice. But if there is any- 
thing that I can do — ” 

“ Do !” she echoed indignantly. “ Why, what is there 
left for you to do? You have left me — you love me no 
longer. Is there anything mor-e to be said? You have 
no heart ; you are false and cruel and cold. ” 

“It was not I,” he said, hardening a little beneath 
the battery of accusation, “ who deserted you when we 
might have been man and wife, Beatrice.” 

“ You reproach me with that, do you?” she said. “ It 
was your own fault. If you had been less tame — less 
spiritless — but it is too late now — too late. If you have 
left off loving me, the less said the better. But it is 
very hard on me” — sobbing passionately again — “for 
I — I always believed in you, Philip, and thought that 
you would never play me false.” 

“ I think I have been very true to you,” he said sadly. 
“ I have wasted the best years of my life in caring for 
you. If you had been true to me at first, you would 
never have had to complain. As it is — I cannot change 
myself. If I could do anything for you I would — any- 
thing that would really help you ; but it is too late for 
aught between us but regret. Beatrice, you must for- 
get me. Surely it will not be very hard. ” 


THE LAST CHANCE. 


253 


“ I shall never forget you — either in love or hate, I 
shall remember, ” she said, drying her eyes and turning 
a little aside. After a moment’s pause she spoke again 
in a harsh, uneven voice. “Who is it?” she asked. 
“ Who is it that has — stolen — you away from me?” 

“Nobody has stolen anything,” he answered, with 
some impatience. “ Take comfort — she does not care 
for me. ” 

“ It is Elfrida Paston?” 

“Yes, it is Elfrida.” 

“ I hate her ! I always hated her ! But you are right : 
she does not care for you. She cares for Beaulieu. 
She has taken him away from Betty, as she has taken 
you away from me — ” 

“ This is folly. Lady Beltane. She is not responsible 
for the love she gains.” 

“ Oh, is she not? Do you think she does not try to 
gain it? I tell you she is an accomplished flirt — a co- 
quette, with tricks enough for a woman twice her years. 
Oh, yes, you may try to silence me if you will ; but it 
is no use. I am a woman, and I understand other 
women. You will remember what I say, in spite of 
yourself ; and some day you will see that I speak the 
truth.” 

“ Beatrice ! Listen — ” 

“I will not be called Beatrice by you,” she cried, 
stamping her foot. Her eyes glowed like live coals; 
her face was livid and distorted in her rage ; her voice 
was so hoarse as to be almost unrecognizable. As he 
looked at her he wondered that he had ever loved a 
woman who was capable of such a storm of rage. “We 
will be strangers henceforth,” she went on, “or if not 
strangers — enemies. Remember what I say. For if I 


254 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


can make you feel the weight of my own misery — if I 
can make her feel it — I shall not hold my hand. She 
has stolen you from me, and I will make her suffer for 
her treachery if I can.” 

She threw out her hand with a gesture, half threat- 
ening, half forbidding; then she turned from him, and 
walked rapidly away. His first impulse was to call her 
back; then reason restrained him, and he watched her 
in silence as she sped through the Park toward the broad 
avenue that led to the house. Her head was lifted, her 
form was erect : she was^ careful to show no weakness 
while she might yet be in his sight. But ere she 
reached the house her head had sunk, and she was 
obliged to draw the thick veil which she had fastened 
to her bonnet over her face, for the hot tears were once 
more falling from her eyes, and the muscles of her 
mouth quivered like those of one in deadly pain. 

She had made her last throw, and she had failed. 
The game was over as far as she was concerned. She 
had lost her stake. But she was still alive to the felicity 
that is said to lie for some natures in spoiling other peo- 
ple’s chances in the great game of life. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


A PROPHECY OF ILL. 

As we have already said, Henry Paston’s organization 
was especially sensitive to the moral and mental atmos- 
phere surrounding him. He seemed able to divine 
where others only blundered; he had the faculty of 
reading signs and tokens in faces and actions which 
were perfectly without meaning to the outer world. 
And during the few December days before the ball that 
Sir Anthony had promised to give, it seemed to Plenry 
as if the air were charged with signification of an omi- 
nous kind. Philip came to sit with him one evening, in 
a quiet hour before dinner, and found him uneasy, 
excited, and less like his usual serene self than his 
friend had ever seen him. 

“ What’s the matter, Harry? Are you worse this even- 
ing, old fellow?” 

“ No, not a bit. I suppose you mean,” said the boy, 
with a slight, self-conscious laugh, “that I am very 
cross?” 

Not exactly; but you are not yourself, I think, for 
some reason or other.” And Philip changed his posi- 
tion a little, so that he might see Henry’s face more 
distinctly. 

The singular beauty of that boyish face had not 
changed. The golden hair was as bright as ever ; the 
eyes were almost feverishly brilliant, and the color that 

255 


256 SIR Anthony's secret. 

tinged the thin cheek was of the intensest crimson. On 
the white temples a network of blue veins testified to 
the fragility of the lad’s constitution ; and, especially of 
late, an upright line of pain had shown itself between 
his eyebrows. The wonderful sweetness of his expres- 
sion was not, however, impaired by this mark that suf- 
fering had laid upon him. There was, perhaps, more 
of a pathetic look than there used to be, and more than 
ever a refined and noble kind of patience. Hence, it 
was unusual to see him, as now, with slightly twitching 
brows and restless eyes, or with the fever-flush so high 
upon his wasted cheek; and Philip felt instinctively 
that something — and not merely of a physical nature — 
must be wrong. 

“What is it?” he asked, after watching him for a 
minute or two. 

“Oh, you see it, do you?” said Henry, throwing his 
head back. “ That is the worst of it. I am too poor a 
creature to hide what I am feeling. I did mean to hold 
my tongue. ” 

“You generally hide what you feel a great deal too 
much,” said Phil, who spoke as tenderly to him as if 
he were a woman ; “ but there is no need to hide it from 
me. What’s wrong?” 

Henry had closed his eyes for a moment, with an un- 
wonted contraction of the brows. When he opened his 
eyes and fixed them upon Philip’s face the young man 
was struck by their expression. It was as if they had 
been turned in upon themselves and could see things 
which other mortals could not see. 

“Everything is wrong,” he said concisely. “There 
is a shadow over the whole house. Do you not feel it 
yourself?” 


A PROPHECY OF ILL. 


257 


“You are fanciful, Harry.’' But the shadow, what- 
ever it was, seemed to descend upon Philip’s own face 
as he spoke. 

“ I wish I were. . . . Oh, Phil, do you think it pos- 
sible that I may be? . . . But I have had these feel- 
ings before about people, and they always turned out 
right.” 

“ What feelings, dear boy?” 

“ The feeling of — of — well, of a coming disaster. 
You mustn’t laugh at me, Phil.” 

“ Disaster to whom? I won’t laugh at you, though I 
can but hope you are merely imagining things.” 

“ Disaster to whom?” said Henry dreamily. “Well, 

I don’t know. It sometimes seems to me as^^ough 
disaster hung over the whole house — over Elfie and you 
and Sir Anthony, and every one that is dear to me. 
Over those that are not dear to me, too. There are 
some in the house — ” 

He stopped short suddenly, and looked at Philip with 
eyes which had a new light in them. “ Lady Kesterton 
deos not like me, ” he said ; “ she has never said a kind 
word to me in her life, and yet — if I could — I would 
sooner warn her of coming evil than any one else. It. 
seems to me as if the shadow over her were darker than 
over the others. ” 

“ My dear Harry,” said Phil, leaning over him and 
speaking softly, “ I should be very sorry if Lady Kes- 
terton heard you talk in this way. ” 

“ You think she would call me mad?” said Henry, a 
smile lighting up his face. “Well — perhaps so; but 
I’m not mad, for all that, Phil; and I’m afraid you 
will one day see that I speak the truth.” 

“What do you mean by the shadow of which you 

17 


258 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


speak?” asked Philip, wondering whether it would be 
better to make him explain himself further, or let the 
matter sink into oblivion. 

But Henry was usually so clear-headed that he did not 
think it could harm him to speak out. And there was 
less trace of excitement than before in his voice and 
manner as he replied : 

“ I don’t know that I can make it plain. From what 
I’ve heard about Scotch second-sight I could almost 
fancy that I had a little of that gift. I generally dream 
about the persons first. I don’t dream anything intel- 
ligible of them. I only know that some danger threat- 
ens them ; and then, sometimes, when I next see those 
persons, there seems to be a sort of cloud about them — 
a sort of darkness. It is very difficult to explain. ” 

“And are you seeing this about us now?” Philip 
asked, with a smile. “ Rather an uncanny idea, is it 
not? What do I look like when under a cloud?” 

But Henry’s eyes were grave as he answered: 

“ It is not so actual and visible a cloud as you think. 
No; I can’t explain it — I can only say that I feel it 
when it’s there. And I believe that it’s a danger-sig- 
nal of some kind. I wish — I wish it did not hang over 
Elfie — that is all. ” 

“What, the rest of us are of no importance!” said 
Phil, trying to rally him out of his depression. “ You 
are morbid, Harry ; you dwell too much on your own 
fancies. And they are very useless fancies, too, dear 
boy, because, after all, they don’t enable you to help 5’our 
friends. Even if you warned us all, of what good would 
the warning be? We should not know what to avoid.” 

“ I suppose not. Yet it might be of use in some way. 
Be on your guard yourself, Phil. ” 


A PROPHECY OF ILL. 


259 


“ I know of no danger,” said Philip, smiling and shak- 
ing his head, “ except those that I shall incur in the 
gi*eat metropolis when I go up next month.” 

It was in this way that he tried to change a danger- 
ous subject; for he had not as yet told Henry of his 
intention to leave Kesterton Park. The lad’s face 
changed and colored 

“ Up to London? But not to stay ?” 

“Yes, old fellow, to stay. I can’t stand this kind of 
life any longer. I have idled away a good bit of my 
time, and I must see whether I can’t do anything for 
myself. ” 

“ This is something new, isn’t it?” 

“Yes — unfortunately, quite new. I never thought 
about it until lately.” 

“ Elfrida will be sorry.” 

“ Will she?” Phil asked the question with unneces- 
sary emphasis. 

“ Of course she will. And I too — that goes without 
saying. But perhaps I understand better than Elfie 
would do ; because I have thought — sometimes — of what 
I should like to have done if I had been — stronger.” 

“Oh, so you have both been judging me?” said 
Philip, a little bitterly. “You think I have failed in 
life, too — as your sister does. ” 

“ Elfie and I have never talked about it. No, I don’t 
think you have failed,” said Henry, simply, “because 
you have always done what you wanted ; but I think 
you might perhaps have wanted to do more.” 

Philip sighed. “ It is odd that I never looked at it be- 
fore in the light which seems so natural to you two,” he 
said. Then, after a pause: “ Henry, do you know what 
I wish for more than anything in earth or heaven?” 


26o 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


Henry shook his head. “ I have no idea. Yon have 
not often seemed to care for anything-. ” 

“ I care for something now. I love your sister, and I 
want to make her my wife.” 

A radiantly happy smile flitted over the boy’s thin 
face. He put out his hand to Philip’s with one of the 
gentle, kindly gestures which so often showed the 
innate sweetness and kindliness of his nature. “ I 
think I must have guessed part of it,” he said. “ I am 
very glad.” And then, after a short pause, “ It is good 
of you.” 

“ Good of me? I must deny the goodness.” 

“ No, I think not; because some men would not have 
spoken until after the twelfth — Elfrida’s twenty-first 
birthday, you know, when we both hope that we shall 
learn a little more about ourselves than we know now.” 

“ That is not a matter that I care about,” said Philip, 
with a momentary stiffness. Then, smiling at his own 
tone, “ I can trust Sir Anthony. He has always said 
to me that it would be all right. ” 

“ Have you told him what you wish?” 

“I have.” 

“ And— did he—” 

“He seemed amused,” said Philip, rather ruefully, 
“ and nothing more. But that is not what troubles me, 
Harry. It is Elfie herself. She does not care for me. ” 

“Oh, but indeed she does,” cried Henry, his face 
flushing and his eyes gleaming with indignant sur- 
prise. “ She must care for you — how can she do other- 
wise? Why, Phil, you have always been our best 
friend. ” 

“ Perhaps that is the worst of it. If I had come to her 
as a stranger — if she had never seen me before — perhaps 


A PROPHECY OF ILL. 


261 


she might have learned to love me But she says that 
it is impossible. ” 

May I speak to her?” 

“ Speak if you like; but don't try to force her, Henry. 
Don’t talk about such foolish things as — as ‘gratitude,' 
for instance. She has no reason to be grateful to me, 
and the very word” — with a slight, pained smile — 
“might make her hate me.” 

“She could not do that. I have read,” said Henry 
meditatively, “ of girls not knowing their own minds — 
making mistakes about their feelings, and so on : per- 
haps it is a case of this kind. It will be interesting to 
study it in real life. I think Elfie will tell me."' 

“ I’m afraid it is hopeless. There’s another attrac- 
tion, Harry. Haven’t you seen how Beaulieu is struck 
with her?” 

“Beaulieu? But Beaulieu,” said Henry, with some 
hesitation, “ belongs to Lady Betty. ” 

“ Exactly. But perhaps Beaulieu does not think so. 
I wish he did. I wish he had never come near the 
place.” 

“It would have been very jolly, certainly, if Elfie 
would have married you. Would you have taken her 
off to London?” 

“ If I had, I should not have left you behind, dear 
boy,” said Philip tenderly. “You should have come, 
too.” 

“ I would rather have you for a brother-in-law than 
any one in the world,” said Henry, quickly; “but at 
the same time I shall be sorry if ever I have to leave 
Kesterton. I sometimes think I never shall leave it — 
while I live.” 

“Prophecies again! I can listen to no more signs 


262 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


and omens, save the omen of the dressing-bell,” said 
Philip, with a somewhat feigned carelessness. “ Good- 
by, old fellow. And tell me, if you can,” dropping 
his voice to a more earnest tone, “ what your sister says 
of me.” 

It was “ your sister” now, not “ Elfie,” as of old. The 
more familiar diminutive had disappeared before the 
influence of Philip’s love. Henry was hardly experi- 
enced enough to appreciate the significance of the 
change ; but he noted it, nevertheless. 

When Elfrida came into the room, later in the even- 
ing, and sat down beside his couch for the quiet chat 
which brother and sister loved so well, he looked at 
her with a new sort of observation — an expression 
of keen consideration which she was quick to per- 
ceive. 

“ What is it, Henry? What are you looking at me 
for?” The color rose a little in her delicate, oval face, 
as she asked the question. 

” I wanted to see,” he answered, “what there was to 
admire in that pallid countenance of yours. ” 

He spoke half- jokingly, with a smile curving his lips. 
The feverish excitement which he had shown during 
his talk with Philip had subsided; indeed, he made 
great efforts to conceal it, and other signs of malaise^ 
from his sister’s eyes. His unselfishness reached an 
unusual height. Few chronic invalids hide their 
symptoms as sedulously as he tried to do. 

“Is it pallid? It feels rather red just now,” said 
Elfrida, putting up her hands to screen her flushing 
cheeks. Then she said suddenly, “ Oh, Harry, what is 
it? You look as if you knew something.” 

“ Nothing very bad,” said her brother, rather sorrow- 


A PROPHECY OF ILL. 263 

fully. “ Only that you have gained something which, 
I think, you do not value. ” 

She looked at him with frightened eyes. “ Hal, 
dear, don’t speak so reproachfully. I don’t know, 
really, what you mean. ” 

“ Don’t you, dear? Don’t you know that Philip — ” 

“ Philip!” There was disdain in her tone. “Philip 
is very foolish ; he ought never to have spoken to you.” 

“ And why not?” 

“He should not have bothered you,” said Elfrida, 
laying caressing fingers against his cheek, and speaking 
in gently coaxing tones, “ when he knew that he had 
no chance.” 

“No chance? Of winning your love, do you mean, 
Elfie?” 

“ Exactly. ” She nodded in her most convincing way. 
“ Though how at your age you know anything about 
love, you clever boy. I’m sure I cannot tell.” 

“ Elfie, darling, be serious. Think how good Phil 
has always been to us. It was through him that we ever 
came to be educated — cared for — as we have been. Sir 
Anthony has told me so. We owe him a debt that we 
have often thought we could never repay. You might 
have done it, Elfie — if you would.” 

“But I can’t, you see, dear,” said Elfie, plaintively. 
She brought her lips down to the level of Henry’s hand 
and kissed it, as if by way of atonement for her speech. 

“ Don’t you like him?” 

“ Oh, yes, well enough. Not as a wife should love 
her husband.” 

“But you are not a wife,” said Henry, with boyish 
triumph, “so you can’t love him in that way yet, you 
see. The love would come in time. ” 


264 


SIR Anthony's secret. 


“Oh, no, it wouldn’t, Henry.” 

“ I think it would. And we could then be so happy 
together! Phil would go off to London and make a 
home for you there — where you would not have to teach 
children or do anything disagreeable ; and I should per- 
haps come with you if I was strong enough, and every- 
thing would be nice. ” 

“But, Hal, I thought you never wanted to leave 
Kesterton?” 

“ I don’t. But I have thought lately that perhaps it 
would be best if I did. We are only in the way here, 
Elfie. Let us take the first opportunity of getting out 
into the world.” 

Elfrida was silent for a moment. Unnumbered feel- 
ings and wishes which she felt that Henry would not 
altogether understand surged up in her heart. It was 
with a trembling voice that she at last replied : 

“ I don’t think we can settle matters so easily, Henry. 
Oh, believe me, dear, I do know what I am saying ; I 
do understand. I wish with my whole heart that I 
could repay our debt to Philip. But not in that way, 
Hal — not in that way. ” 

“ Is there any other?” said Henry. He was unusu- 
ally wise and sympathetic for his age and sex, but it 
was hardly to be expected that he shoud understand a 
woman’s heart. And Elfrida was painfully, helplessly 
conscious of his want of comprehension. 

“ I can’t help it,” she said. “ You don’t know — it is 
not the same for you — you are not a girl. Henry, it 
seems to me that I have changed, too, during the last 
few weeks. I am not a child any more ; I am a woman. 
And I have a woman’s needs and instincts — oh, I know 
you will not understand me, but it is true. I have 


A PROPHECY OF ILL. 


265 


found my soul, Hal — or, rather, it was found for me and 
waked up to life by some one — not Philip Winyates — 
another — " 

“ Another I’-' re-echoed Henry, in surprise. “ Is it pos- 
sible that there is some one else who loves you, Elfie? 
And I did not know!'* 

She bent her head lower and lower, and the color 
overspread her face and neck. “ I can’t help it, Henry, ” 
she murmured. “ He says he loves me — he told me so 
some days ago. And I have been wanting to tell you, 
but I did not dare.” 

“ Who is it, then?” said Henry. His face had turned 
pale and looked almost stern, so rigidly were the feat- 
ures set. “ Elfie, tell me his name. ” 

She answered him humbly, without lifting her head. 
“Don’t be angry, Hal,” she murmured. “It is Lord 
Beaulieu — Lionel. ” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


love’s young dream. 

“Elfie! Elfie! what have you done?” 

These were the words with which Henry received his 
sister’s confidence, and having uttered them he turned 
his face to the cushion and would say no more. 

“What have I done?” Elfrida asked, in some amaze- 
ment. “ Hal, dear,. I don’t know what you mean. 
Surely there is nothing wrong in my loving Lionel. 
He loves me, too — and he wants me — he wants me to 
be his wife!” 

“Don’t tell me any more,” said Henry, in stifled 
tones. “ I can’t bear it. I don’t think you know what 
you are doing. You must let me think.” 

Elfrida drew herself away from her kneeling posi- 
tion, and held up her head. For the first time in her 
life she was conscious of a feeling of offence and anger 
with her brother. For the first time a shadow fell 
between them — one of those shadows of wounded feel- 
ing which are easier to avoid than to remove. 

“ Think as much as you please, ” she said quickly, 
“ but do not imagine that you can ever alter what has 
been settled between Lionel and me. ” 

She moved backward a step while speaking, but 
Henry uncovered his face, and turned it towards her 
with so much reproach in his pathetic eyes, that his 
sister hastily threw herself once more on her knees 

beside him and lavished kisses on his thin, worn face. 

266 


love’s young dream. 


267 


“Darling, forgive me for speaking so crossly,” she 
said. “ I know yoti are surprised, and you want to think 
things over; but after all, Hal, dear, don’t you think I 
know best?” 

“Why should you know best, Elfie?” he asked sadly. 
“You are a girl, dear, and you are ‘in love,’ as people 
say; and don’t lookers-on sometimes see most of the 
game?” 

“If there is a game to see,” she answered, with an 
attempt at her wonted lightness of tone. “ But in this 
case it is all plain sailing. Lord Beaulieu is his own 
master. He has no one to consult. And I am a 
woman, Hal — years older than you, remember — and I 
love him.” 

“ But there are other considerations, Elfie. Does he 
know more than we do about our position in the world.? 
Is he content to accept you as you are?” 

“ Perfectly, ” said Elfrida, with a proud look. “He 
does not mind one bit whether I am penniless or not. 
He knows that our mother was not a lady by birth. I 
told him all that. And he accepts me as I am. I love 
him the more for it.” 

“ But if — ” Henry began, and then he paused. To 
Elfrida, at least, he resolved to say nothing more. He 
would wait for her twenty-first birthday, when, he had 
been led to suppose, a good deal that was now hidden 
would be made clear. He had thought more than 
Elfrida had of the possibility that there was a stain 
upon their birth. This, he knew, would weigh with a 
man like Lord Beaulieu far more than any considera- 
tion of poverty or mean ancestry. But he would not 
suggest anything of this sort to Elfrida’s mind. He 


268 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


would wait and see what the 13th of December would 
bring forth. 

So he let Elfrida kiss him again, very tenderly this 
time, and then bade her call Terry, for he was tired 
and wanted to go to bed. And El fie cast down her eyes 
as he spoke for fear that he should see that they were 
lighted up with a gleam of satisfaction of which she 
was heartily ashamed and yet did not know how to sup- 
press. For Henry’s departure to his own room meant 
that the girl was now free to make certain little changes 
in her own dress for which she had been longing, but 
for which she had been unwilling to leave her broth- 
er’s side as long as he seemed to want her company. 

It was not a night on which ^he was expected to 
appear in the drawing-room. Lady Kesterton had told 
her so, in her very coldest tones, and Elfrida well knew 
the reason. Lord Beaiilieu had been invited, and the 
too attractive little governess was to be kept out of the 
way. At the same time there were reasons why Elfrida 
wanted to make herself look beautiful. A little note 
from Beaulieu lay in her pocket — she had been very 
conscious of it, even while she was talking to Henry — 
and in this note he begged her to come into the picture- 
gallery when dinner was over. He hoped to be able 
to get five minutes with her then. 

“ Is it wrong, is it underhand, I wonder?” Efrida 
asked herself, as she flung off the old school-room frock 
and clad herself in the soft white muslin that Beaulieu 
liked to see her wear. Her eyes were exceptionally 
brilliant, her cheeks glowed with unaccustomed color, 
her hands trembled with excitement. The little pang 
of conscience which had assailed her was quickly 
passed. It did not seem to her as yet natural that she 


LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 


269 


should mistrust her lover. He was so frank, so brig-ht, 
so devoutly in love with her. She did what he told 
her without a thrill of fear. 

It was a quarter to ten when at last she stole out into 
the long dark gallery, lighted only by the windows on 
one side. It had recently been fitted up with electric 
lamps, but at present these were not lighted. Elfrida 
went softly to one of the windows and stood within 
the shadow of the curtain gazing out upon the night. 
Beaulieu would know where to find her when he came. 

And yet it was a surprise to her when his arm slid 
round her waist, and she suddenly felt the pressure of 
his lips upon her cheeks. 

“ Mayn’t I?” he whispered penitently, as she started 
and tried to draw herself away. “ I did not mean to 
frighten you, dear; you let me kiss yoii last time.” 

“ But you asked my leave first,” said Elfrida: and in 
the dim light he could just see that she was smiling. 

“I will ask it now,” he said. “Will you give me 
leave? — just one! Oh, Elfie, I thought I should never 
get away from that dinner-table. Have you been here 
long?” 

“ Not long ; but I’m not sure whether I ought to come 
at all.” 

“ Why not, darling?” 

“ It seems like cheating. I am sure Lady Kesterton 
would be very angry if she knew; and — your people — ” 

“ But I have no ‘people, ’ ” he said, with alight laugh ; 
“ and they could not object to you if I had. And you 
are not bound to tell Lady Kesterton your secrets, are 
you?” 

“ No, but I live in her house, and I am sure she would 
say that I was deceiving her.” 


270 


&IR ANTHONY S SECRET. 


“ Never mind wliat she would say, dearest; I am only 
waiting for the earliest opportunity to speak to Sir An- 
thony — he is your guardian, isn’t he? — and then I shall 
bear you off in triumph. Shall I speak to him to- 
night?” 

Elfrida hesitated. “ He ought to know — ” she began. 
“ Of course — ” 

Lord Beaulieu interrupted her with his ready, boyish 
laugh. “ I know what you mean, you dear little 
humbug. You don’t want me to speak until after the 
ball. It would spoil your pleasure if I did, wouldn’t 
it?” 

“ Oh, Lord Beaiilieu — well, Lionel, then — what a 
tease you are. I really think you ought to speak at 
once, or else — ” 

“ Or else what, madam?” 

“ Or else I ought not to meet you here. ” And El- 
frida’s voice quivered a little with a consciousness of 
pain — possibly of wrong-doing. And in answer to that 
quiver Beaulieu’s tones also softened. 

“ My darling, I don’t think you are doing wrong at 
all. We are not keeping our secret because we are 
afraid that the truth should be known. We are keeping 
it only for convenience sake — -for a day or two. There 
is no harm in it. I will speak to Sir Anthony on the 
day after the ball. And don’t be afraid — nobody shall 
blame you.” 

“But I really have a reason, Lionel,” said Elfrida 
earnestly. “ Don’t you remember I told you that from 
various things that have been said I believe I am to 
hear all about myself on my twenty-first birthday — 
which happens to be the day of the ball? And you had 
better know all about me first — before you speak to Sir 


love’s young dream. 


271 


Anthony. There has been such a mystery, you know, 
about Sir Anthony’s reasons for keeping us here that 
one cannot help fancying there might be something 
unpleasant — something terrible — so I want you to wait 
till then.” 

“ Don’t you trust my love, Elfrida?” 

“Yes, yes, I do. But I want you to wait.” 

“You make me half inclined to say that I will not. 
I have a good mind to go to Sir Anthony at once and 
tell him the truth.” 

“ No, no, you must not defy Fate in that way. Be- 
sides, you forget — I want to be at the ball in all my 
bravery,” said Elfrida, cleverly feigning an innocent 
vanity which she did not really feel, “ and if there is 
any fuss beforehand. Lady Kesterton will perhaps not 
let me come — ” 

“Poor little darling! To think that you are under 
the thumb of that old vixen. Well, it will soon be 
over, and then you will be under my thumb. Shall 
you like that any better?” 

“You forget — you will be under mine,” said Elfie, 
saucily; and then she raised her soft lips to meet his 
kiss, as if to ask pardon for the mock defiance of his 
authority. 

“ I must go, ” he said, lingering nevertheless, as if he 
grudged the moments spent away from her. “ I came 
out of the dining-room on some pretext of joining the 
ladies at once. I must be off or I shall be missed. 
Are you not coming down too?” 

“ Not to-night. I was told I should not be wanted. ” 

“We shall be as dull as ditch-water without you. 
When you are itiy wife, you will be the brighest star in 
any assembly — as you are now. It is just because Lady 


272 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


Kesterton sees that fact that she tries to keep you away, 
my dearest one. Well, by and by — ” 

“Oh, go, Lionel, go; I hear footsteps coming. We 
must not be found here together,” said Elfrida, hur- 
riedly. But she was a little too late. The gallery door 
was opened, and a figure advanced, rather slowly and 
timidly, into the room, 

“ Is any one here?” said a voice that both Elfie and 
Lionel knew very well, and which made them start 
guiltily apart. It was the voice of Lady Betty. 

Before either of them could answer she had pressed 
her finger on the electric button connected with the 
great central group of incandescent lamps, which all at 
once sprang into a warm brilliancy, the whiteness of 
their light being softened by rose-colored glass. There 
was no escape from that sudden flood of light. Lady 
Betty stood near the door, looking with astonished eyes 
from Elfrida to Beaulieu, who stood at about a couple 
of yards’ distance from each other, and who bore a 
somewhat shame-faced and disconcerted appearance. 
The silence that they kept perhaps revealed more than 
speech would have done. Lady Betty’s soft little face 
suddenly turned crimson. She drew up her little fair 
head with a dignity of which nobody would ever have 
thought her capable. 

“ I am sorry. I am afraid I have interrupted a con= 
versation,” she said quietly and clearly. “I beg your 
pardon. I will go. ” 

“Lady Betty, stay one moment — please stay!”* 
cried Elfrida, darting forward. But Betty was gone, 
and Lionel laid a firm, detaining grip on the girl’s 
arm. 

“ Do not go,” he said, frowning as she had never seen 


love's young dream. 


273 

him frown before. “ What business had she to come 
here? Can one never have a moment’s peace?” 

Elfrida did not understand either the look or the tone. 
“ Oh, let me run after her and explain,” she said plead- 
ingly. “ She will think m<^ so deceitful and wrong — I 
know she will. Do let me go to her and tell her every- 
thing. ” 

“Tell Betty Stormont everything? What are you 
thinking of?” said Beaulieu, still in his vexed, imperi- 
ous tone. “ No, Elfrida, if any one is to tell her, I 
will be the one.” 

“I do not like her to think ill of me,” said Elfrida, 
standing still with the tear-drops in her eyes. 

“ She will not think ill of you, dear. If of any one,, 
it will be of me,” he said, with a momentary curl of 
his lip. “ There — you don’t understand. I suppose I 
must go. Trust to me, little woman. It will be all 
right. I will manage everything.” 

She let him kiss her once again upon the lips before 
he left the gallery, but she felt chilled. What was 
there that she did not understand? Why should Betty 
Stormont, of all people, think ill of him? And then, 
quite suddenly, there flashed into her mind a remem- 
brance of some merry words spoken by Henry in a jest- 
ing mood, on her return to Kesterton Park, “ Lady Bet- 
^y’s young man.” That was what he had called Lord 
Beaulieu, and Elfrida had never stopped to ask whether 
there was any serious meaning in his words. Cer- 
tainly, she reflected, Beaulieu and Lady Betty were not 
engaged. She would have heard of the engagement 
if there had been one, And Betty was a mere child 
still— a baby at heart, although she was “out” in the 
world. It could not be possible that there was any- 
18 


274 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


thing between her and Lionel of which Elfrida did not 
know? 

She stood still for a few moments, in the full light of 
the electric lamps, which seemed to be illuminating 
her intellect as they had already illuminated the room. 
She remembered that it was very soon after her arrival 
in the house that Lord Beaulieu began to make love to 
her. And she — yes, she acknowledged it now — she 
had very speedily lost her head, as well as her heart. 
She had been carried away by a full tide of hope and 
joy and love. She had never thought of drawing back, 
of making cautious inquiries, of maintaining a prudent 
reserve. She had forgotten all about the difference of 
position between herself and him. He was simply a 
bright-faced young fellow, with a winning manner and 
a ready tongue ; and he had completely won her heart. 
To her he was already “ Lionel, ” not Lord Beaulieu; 
and it was only by a great effort that she could remem- 
ber the possible existence of other claims which might 
take him away from her. 

Now for the first time she saw the situation with 
unenviable clearness. She saw that Henry’s words 
might possibly have had a serious meaning. She saw 
that the world might accuse her of baseness and mean- 
ness, if by any chance it was true that she had stolen 
Lionel’s heart from Lady Betty, who had always been 
so kind to her. 

Then she remembered Philip Winyates, and his pre- 
vious attachment to Lady Beltane, and her heart grew 
hot within her. It seemed to her no compliment that 
she should have won men’s hearts away from the women 
whom they had loved in days gone by. “ Are men all 
like this?” she said to herself. “Am I never to be any 


love’s young dream. 


275 


one’s first love?” And she bit her lip, and dashed away 
a somewhat petulant tear from her eyes. She was still 
a child at heart, and a child who had not yet been 
taught the lessons of self-restraint and self-suppression 
which life demands that all of us should learn. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Terry had found her pet and patient 
unusually restless and feverish, and had left her door 
open, so that she, in the next room, could hear the 
sound of every movement. She was dozing over her 
needlework at last, however, and in imminent danger of 
setting her cap on fire, when a step on the floor and a 
hand laid softly on her shoulder made her spring up in 
affright. 

“ Miss Elfie? Bless me — no, it’s Lady Betty; I beg 
pardon, my lady, did you want anything?” 

‘‘ Only to know if Miss Elfrida was here, Terry,” said 
Lady Betty. “ I wanted to speak to her — but it will 
do in the morning if she has gone to bed.” 

‘‘I think she has, my lady; but I’ll call her in a 
moment, if you like. ” 

“ No, certainly not; it is nearly twelve o’clock.” 

“ So it is; and you look very tired, my lady..” 

Lady Betty reddened a little : she knew that her face 
bore the traces of certain unruly tears, but she had not 
thought that they would be visible to old Terry. “ I 
am rather tired,” she said in a low voice, “ and I think 
I will go to bed at once. How is Mr. Henry to-night?” 

“ Sadly, my lady. Very feverish, and in a good bit 
of pain.” 

“I’m sorry to hear it. Say good-night to him for 
me.” 

She glided to the door, but as she laid her hand upon 
the handle, a faint voice sounded from the other room. 


276 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“Terry, is that not Lady Betty?” 

Terry glanced at the visitor, and receiving a nod of 
permission to reply, said, “Yes, Mr. Henry; she wants 
to know how you are. ” 

“ If she would come and put her hand on my forehead 
for a minute or two,” said the boy, “I think I should 
go to sleep.” 

Terry looked somewhat doubtfully at Lady Betty; 
but the girl'did not hesitate. “I’m here; I’ll come,” 
she said gently. And then she entered the dark room 
and felt her way to Henry’s side. 

The cold hand laid on his hot brow had a soothing 
effect. “That’s very nice,” he murmured. “I knew 
it would rest me if you came. You are very kind — 
too kind.” 

“Oh, no,” said Lady Betty. 

“Yes, indeed. Thank you, so much. I wish — I wish 
I could do anything for you in return,” said the boy, 
softly. “But I can’t — I can’t.” 

She did not answer, although she bent above him for 
a minute or two longer — tenderly, as a sister might 
have done. Perhaps she was hot able to speak, for 
a tear-drop fell from her eyes upon his hand, which 
was lying outside the bedclothes. Presently she said, 
“ Good-night, ” and stole out of the room. When she 
had gone, the boy raised the hand to his lips and gently 
kissed, the tear away. But Lady Betty’s visit did not 
make him sleep better, after all. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


RENUNCIATION. 

“ Elfie, will you speak to me for a moment?” 

“ I am afraid I can’t wait, Lady Betty; it is time for 
the children’s lessons.” 

“ No. They are going to have a holiday. I asked 
Lady Kesterton to give them one, and also to let me 
come and tell you so. ” 

“ Why?” said Elfrida, coloring vividly, in spite of her 
resolution not to betray herself. 

“ Because,” answered Lady Betty, with rather a trem- 
ulous motion of the lips, although her voice was steady, 
“ because I wanted you to come to my room and have a 
long talk with me.” 

The two had met in the long gallery, and Elfrida, 
who had been, in truth, going to the school-room, was 
trying to pass by Lady Betty, with only a formal greet- 
ing. But Betty had been on her way to seek Elfrida, and 
would not be prevented from saying what she came to 
say. 

They stood and looked at one another, Elfrida with a 
curious air of shame and distress. Lady Betty with a 
serenity which had in it something of the angelic qual- 
ity. Then Elfrida’s hidden feeling burst forth, with 
starting tears : 

“ Please, Lady Betty, let me go. I — have nothing to 
say. ” 

“ But I have,” said the other, quietly. “ It is no use, 

277 


278 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


Elfie, I must speak; and you needn’t say anything at , 
all.” 

She laid her hand within Elfrida’s arm, and led her 
away to her own sanctum — the pretty little blue-and- 
white room which was always appropriated to Betty’s 
use when she visited Kesterton Park. There Elfrida 
was placed in a big chintz chair, rather against her 
will, and then her hostess closed the door, came up to 
her, and kissed her forehead. Whereat Elfie, being a 
little sore and frightened at what had happened, burst 
into tears. 

“You needn’t cry, you silly child,” said Lady Betty. 

“ Don’t you know you are very lucky?” 

There was not the slightest tremulousness in her 
voice now. 

“I feel as if I had been — deceitful,” said Elfrida. 
“And — what is worse — I can’t say anything — I can’t 
tell you anything more. ” 

“ Did Lionel tell you not to speak?” asked the girl, 
with a smile. “ That was foolish of him — and I shall 
tell him so some day. Never mind; there is no neces- 
sity for you to say anything. Just listen to me for a 
few minutes, and then I think you will understand 
matters better.” 

Could it be light-hearted, sunshiny little Lady Betty 
who was speaking? Her words sounded as if they were 
measured ; her voice had the calmness and authority of 
a woman twice her age. Perhaps the proud spirit of 
the race to which she belonged had come to her aid ; 
perhaps she felt that she must not betray the traditions 
of her womanhood. At any rate, she spoke as Elfrida 
had never heard her speak — no longer like a child, but 
as a woman of noble birth and noble mind. 


RENUNCIATION. 


279 

“ I saw what you were feeling last night,” said Lady 
Betty, “ and I think I know what Lionel feels, too. 
I have known him all my life, you know, Elfie, and I 
think I may claim to understand him as well as — most 
people. There was an old arrangement between my 
family and his — well, scarcely an arrangement, but a 
feeling, a desire — that I should marry Lionel. These 
arrangements never come to any good, as surely you 
must know well enough. It is very foolish — I have 
often said so — to try to coerce two people into marriage. 
And, Elfie, there was never anything between Lionel 
and me but the old idea: there was never anything 
serious. Lionel never asked me to marry him ; and if 
he did so, you may rest quite certain that I should say 
‘No.’” 

“ But you would not always have said so?” 

Lady Betty smiled bravely. “ I have not thought 
much about it until quite lately,” she said, “and now 
I have considered it, you see what I think.” 

“ Betty, are you quite — quite sure?” 

For an instant a rather haughty look came into Lady 
Betty’s soft, serious little face. She drew herself up 
with an offended air. 

“ I am not in the habit of saying what I do not mean,” 
she answered. 

“ Forgive me,” Elfrida murmured, hanging her head. 
She felt vaguely guilty, and yet she scarcely knew for 
what. 

“ Forgive you, dear? There is nothing to forgive, ” said 
Betty cheerfully. “ Did I speak crossly? I did not 
mean to; only you seemed to doubt my word for a 
moment. I suppose you can’t imagine that any one in 
the world can exist without being fond of ///;;/, eh?” 


28o 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


She was smiling now, and Elfrida was encouraged to 
answer also with a smile. 

“ I think every one likes him. ” 

“ Well, one can like people without wishing to marry 
them, fortunately,” said Lady Betty, philosophically. 
“And now, dear, do you understand? Are you hap- 
pier?” 

And the two girls put their arms round each other’s 
necks and kissed each other — as girls will ; but there 
was a great difference in their faces as they did it, for 
while Elfrida was rosy and smiling. Lady Betty looked 
rather grave and pale. 

They changed the subject of their conversation imme- 
diately afterwards, for indeed it was almost impossible 
to continue it. Elfrida was withheld from speaking by 
Lionel’s request, and the subject was more painful to 
Lady Betty than she liked to show. So they fell to talk- 
ing of dresses and balls, and employed' the hours in this 
way until luncheon, when they were obliged to separate. 

Elfrida was busy with the children throughout the 
afternoon, and, knowing this, Betty decided, after a 
little hesitation, that she would go to the west wing and 
inquire after Henry. Terry admitted her to the sitting- 
room, where she found the lad lying on his couch. He 
looked sadly white and worn, she thought, and his smile 
was less radiant and more pathetic than usual. Betty 
had not meant to stay, but she lingered by his side as if 
after all she found it difficult to tear herself away. 
Terry went out of the room, shutting the door behind 
her, and the two young people were left alone. A veil 
seemed suddenly withdrawn. 

“Thank you for coming to see me last night,” said 
Henry softly. 


RENUNCIATION. 


2S1 

“ Why were you so feverish?” said Betty. 

And why 'were you so sad?” 

There was a little silence, and then Betty answered 
with eyes cast down. “ I was not sad. At least — I was 
only a little grieved — because I thought two of my 
friends had lost confidence in me.” 

“ Do you mean 7uel I did not know anything till last 
night.” 

“ But you know — you know — now?” 

“ Yes, I know.” 

Betty sat down on a low chair at his side. It was a 
relief to her to find that he understood. 

“I was not blaming you,” she said, “nor any one” 
(with something of an effort this was said) ; “ but I was 
sorry to find that Elfie looked on me as an enemy.” 

“ Has she not behaved like one?” said the boy, rather 
sternly. 

“ Behaved like one? Oh, no.” 

“ I am afraid — she has taken — something away from 
you — ” 

Betty laughed aloud. “ What a child you are!” she 
said, with quite a matronly air. “ You talk as if it were 
a toy which we could give up at will. Love is free, 
don’t you know? I had no claim on Lionel’s love.” 

But there was an understanding — ” 

“ Of the slightest kind,” said Betty valiantly. “ And 
it was between our parents — not between ourselves. ” 

“ Lady Betty, can you honestly tell me that you don’t 
care?” 

“ That’s a very odd question from you to me, isn’t it?” 

“ Never mind — tell me.” 

“ Why should you want to know?” 

“You are fencing instead of giving a direct answer,” 


282 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


said Henry, with some impatience. “ Tell me or I shall 
never be at rest.” 

She looked at him for a moment, and in that moment 
she learned more of his inmost feelings than a hundred 
conversations with him might have taught her. His 
face was slightly flushed, his eyes were humid and 
appealing. It was easy to read there the gentle, far- 
off, yet ardent adoration that the poor lad had formed 
for the girl who had been to him like a sister in Elfrida’s 
absence, and always a source of comfort and a vision of 
delight; and in that adoration she read also a jealous 
fear lest she should have been slighted or injured by 
another. Even if it were his sister who had injured 
her, it was plain to see that Henry would not easily for- 
give. 

Lady Betty raised her graceful little head, and her 
face turned rather pale. She had never told a lie in her 
life, and she was about to tell one now. She considered 
it a necessity, but it was a terrible necessity to her. 

“ I don’t care,” she said. 

“ You don’t care for Lord Beaulieu?” 

“ Only as an old friend. But you ought not to put 
these questions to me. ” 

“ I don’t mind what I ought not to do,” said Henry, 
with a little movement of his thin hand towards hers. 
She had often taken it before, but she did not do so 
now. Her own was trembling, and had turned cold as 
ice. She was afraid that he would suspect something 
wrong if he held it in his own. • “ I don’t mind so long 
as I feel that Elfie is not to blame. ” 

“ She is not to blame at all, and you are not to be 
vexed with her,” said Lady Betty with decision. “I 
am very much pleased about it — delighted. I have not 


RENUNCIATION. 


283 


heard anything for a long time that has pleased me so 
much. I dare say there may be a little fuss made about 
it, by relations — and friends — and people; but what- 
ever happens you must remember that Elfrida is in no 
way to blame, and that I — I — never cared for Lionel.” 

She could not help a little tremor in making this last 
statement, but Henry was not keen enough to perceive 
it. He lay back and smiled, with a wonderful clearing 
of eye and brow. “ Then I may be happy?” he said. 

“ You may be perfectly happy and satisfied. And will 
it not be pleasant when Elfie is settled at Bewley, and 
we can go over and see her?” 

Poor little girl! It was the life she had always 
dreamed of for herself. To be settled at Bewley had 
been the goal of her life, pointed out to her ever since 
she was ten years old. But she had renounced her 
desires ; and she was determined to make her renuncia- 
tion quite complete. 

“Ah!” said Henry, “if I could only go! I should 
like to see ELfie in a home of her own. But I don’t 
want to begin thinking of what I should like — it is a 
dangerous practice when there are so many things.” 

“ I must run away, so as not to tempt you into the 
dangerous practice by beginning to wish myself, ” said 
Lady Betty, rising. “ Good-by. Be nice to Elfie when 
you see her, and to Lionel too. Promise!” 

“I promise,” said Henry, smiling. And then she 
went away ; but instead of traversing the picture-gal- 
lery, and so regaining the main part of the house, she 
turned down the little side-stair, and stood with her 
face pressed to the cold panes of glass in the garden- 
door. 

It was a cold and wintry world that she saw without ; 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


and the light was beginning to fail, for it was after four 
o’clock on a December afternoon ; but, although Betty 
shivered, she felt as if the cold and the dimness suited 
her just then. She had been very brave and very suc- 
cessful, she had not allowed anybody to see the wound 
that Beaulieu’s desertion had inflicted upon her; she 
had held up her head and smiled, although she felt as if 
her very life were being torn away. She was not yet 
eighteen, and there was perhaps less vigor in her love 
than if she had come to riper years ; but there was a 
sting which was almost as painful as that of love could 
be. A marriage between herself and Lionel had been, 
far more than she would allow to Henry, a foregone 
conclusion for many years, and Lionel’s defection would 
be widely known and severely commented upon. 
Indeed, he had been hurried by his passion into going 
further than he had intended to go, and was suffering 
from his conscience in consequence, but Betty did not 
know this, and imagined him as enjoying all the triumph 
and ecstacy of successful love. Nevertheless she did 
not feel bitter against him. She supposed that he 
could not help it. “ Love was free,” as she had said to 
Elfrida: she had not been actually engaged to Lionel, 
and she had no right to claim his allegiance. 

The tears filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks as 
she stood with her face to the glass door. Her strength 
seemed to have deserted her, and she wanted to regain 
a little calmness and composure before she went back to 
the drawing-room for tea. It did not take long for her 
stout heart to win the victory. 

“ What a little silly I am !” she said to herself by and 
by. “ Crying never mended anything, as my old nurse 
used to say, I ought rather to be thinking what else I 


RENUNCIATION. 


285 


can do to smooth Beaulieu’s way. For there will bean 
awful ^ fuss when the truth comes to light. I wish I 
could see him for a moment.” 

It seemed as though the wish brought about its own 
fulfilment, for scarcely were the words out of her mouth 
when a tall, broad-shouldered young fellow in gaiters, 
with a gun over his shoulder, came tramping down the 
gravelled path which led straight to the garden-door. 
Betty’s heart gave a great leap. It was Lionel, and 
he was coming this way so that he might visit the west 
wing before he made his appearance in the drawing- 
room? So, this was his habit, was it? — and for the 
moment Betty’s heart felt very sore. There seemed to 
be so many things going on of which she had been kept 
in ignorance. 

But. this feeling was immediately surmounted and 
crushed down. She herself opened the door to Lionel, 
and met him with her brightest smile. 

“Betty!” he said, recoiling with a startled look. 
“ Betty, I saw some one at the door, but I did not know 
it was you. ” 

“No, I suppose not,” said Betty, with a little nod. 
“ But I am glad you came in this way, all the same. I 
wanted to speak to you. Put your gun down in that 
corner, my lord, and listen to me. ” 

“ I will do as your ladyship pleases, of course,” said 
Beaulieu, with a bow and a laugh, though his face wore 
a somewhat uneasy look. “ But is not this an odd place 
for an interview?” 

“ It is probably the one place in the house where we 
shall not be interrupted,” Betty replied, “and I have 
something very particular to say.” 

He folded his arms and stood upright to listen, with 


286 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


an air of having- to undergo something disagreeable. 
If Betty had been on the lookout for affronts she might 
have felt hurt or offended by this attitude ; but she was 
too high-minded to dwell on trifles, and she spoke in 
her usually sweet and gentle manner. 

“ I think I have cause to be angry with you, Lionel, 
for not making me your confidante, ” she began. “ Why 
didn’t you tell me? Don’t you know that there is 
nothing which would have pleased me more?” 

No, he did not know. As a matter of fact he had 
imagined that Betty would be very much aggrieved by 
his preference of Elfrida. But of course he could not 
say so to her. He could only stammer out something- 
unintelligible and look extremely awkward. 

“I am very fond of Elfrida,” Betty went on. “I 
think she is very beautiful and good and clever — just the 
wife for you, Beaulieu, and just the woman to be mis- 
stress of Bewley Hall.” 

“ She has told you, then?” There was incipient vexa- 
tion in his tone. 

“ No, she has said nothing. But you know I saw 
for myself. ” 

“ I assure you, Betty — ” Lionel began ; but of what he 
meant to assure her Betty never heard, for she thought 
it best to go on serenely with her own little speech. 

“ It is a great pleasure to me,” she said, “ and I think 
it will be a relief to both of us to feel that our families 
cannot expect any more from either of us — you know 
what I mean. I can’t help referring to that stupid old 
arrangement, because it has been dinned into our ears 
ever since we were little children, has it not? You 
know we have laughed about it together, Lionel,” 
There was a little wistfulness in her tone. 


RENUNCIATION. 


287 


“Yes, we did,” said Lionel. “Of course, Betty, 
people can’t arrange beforehand about marriage and 
things like that.” 

“ Of course they can’t,” said Lady Betty. 

“ And everybody knew that — really. I never thought 
of it as anything but a joke — did you?” 

This was carrying the war into the enemy’s country 
indeed. Lionel felt exceedingly hot and uncomfortable. 

“Well, you see,” he said, “if Elfrida hadn’t come in 
my way, and if 5-011 had liked me, Betty — ” 

“Oh, you blundering boy!” cried Betty, with a little 
shriek of laughter, “don’t you know that that is the 
very thing you ought not to have said? I never heard 
anything so stupid. Seriously, Lionel, I am angry with 
you : because you have been so distrustful of me. To 
have made Elfrida love you, and then to tell her that 
she must hide it from me — ” 

“I see. I’m awfully sorry, Betty,” said the young 
man. “ I never meant to distrust you. ” 

“It looks as if you did,” said Betty, with spirit. 
“And,” flushing scarlet, “it might make people say the 
very things we don’t want them to say. We have been 
old friends for a great many years ; you would not like 
people to gossip about us, and say that you had jilted me, 
thrown me over, or anything, would you?” 

“ By Jove, Bett}-, if they say such things. I’ll knock 
their heads off.” 

“You needn’t do that, but you might as well avoid 
any opportunity of giving rise to such remarks. Now, 
if I had been kept entirely in the dark, and had been 
taken by surprise when your engagement was an- 
nounced, why, what on earth do you think Beatrice 
would not have said?” 


2S8 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“I’ve been an ass to keep my secrets from you, Betty, ” 
said Lionel, in high good-humor. “And you are — a 
trump!” 

“ Well,” said Betty, nodding, “ you will see the advan- 
tage of having told me first. I shall announce the fact 
myself to Lady Beltane — ” 

“ Not yet!” said the young man. “ Not until I have 
spoken to Sir Anthony.” 

“ And when will you do that?” 

“ After the ball — she wants that function to be got 
over first. ” 

“Ah! Well, perhaps she is right. But I wish you 
could go and do it now, Lionel. It always seems to me 
such a pity to make secrets out of things. Can I do 
anything for you in smoothing the way?” 

“ Nothing, thanks, dear. Betty, you are awfully 
good. I hope I shall have a chance of standing your 
friend too, some day. ” 

“You must always stand my friend,” she said, with 
her brightest smile. “ And now go round to the front 
door and pay your proper call. You will not see 
Elfrida this afternoon, so it is no use coming in this 
way. Good-by; I shall see you by and by.” 

She watched him from the window as he strode along 
the gravelled path in the dim winter twilight, and then 
she sat down on the lowest step of the stairs and cried 
for five minutes as if her heart would break. But there 
were no traces of tears on her bright, soft face when she 
met Lord Beaulieu in the drawing-room. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

LADY KESTERTON’s BALL. 

The doors of Kesterton Park had opened wide to 
receive some scores of guests. “The country” had 
mustered in full force ; the metropolis itself had sent 
down a goodly number of guests. Kesterton Park was 
so seldom thrown open; its host and hostess were 
considered so “ exclusive” that when invitations were 
issued to- an entertainment there was a general rush to 
obtain them. 

Dancing went on in the picture-gallery. The floor 
was excellent, and a small dais had been erected for the 
musicians at one end of it. The rose-shaded electric 
lighting was a great success, and the tints of the lamp- 
shades were repeated in the banks of azaleas and roses 
which were the wonder of all the guests. It was 
rumored that Sir Anthony had sent for these flowers to 
Cannes and Nice; certainly he had spared no expense, 
and no ball of similar splendor had been given at the 
Park within the memory of man. 

It was professedly a fancy ball ; but fancy-dress was 
not de rigueur for all the guests. The younger people 
had been glad enough to rig themselves out in strange 
garments ; but the chaperons and elder men generally 
preferred a more ordinary costume. There was a pretty 
sprinkling of uniforms. Lord Beaulieu came as Sir 
Walter Raleigh, and Philip (following out Elfrida’s 
19 289 


290 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

suggestion) as Charles 1. , but the brighter and more 
beautiful dresses, of course, belonged to the ladies of 
the party, and among them were some very dainty 
devices. Lady Beltane, with a subtle malice which 
very few divined,' came as a lady of Charles I. ’s Court ; 
this caused her to be paired off, in people’s minds, with 
Philip — which was exactly the result that she desired. 
She had scarcely spoken to him since the day of their 
stormy interview in the park, and Philip had been glad 
to think that she avoided him ; but on this occasion, to 
his embarrassment and disgust, she affected the friend- 
liest manner in the world. 

“ Do you hear what they are saying?” she murmured 
to him behind her White feather fan, as they stood 
together at one end of the gallery before the dancing had 
begun, “ Do you notice what everybody says?” 

“I fear I ani ignorant,” said Philip politely. He 
Would have been very glad to escape from her side, but 
she had laid her finger-tips upon his arm without invi- 
tation, and asked to be escorted up the gallery. She 
now stood still in a recess, and looked at him with as 
bright a smile as if she had never wept upon his 
shoulder or hurled reproaches upon him for his unfaith- 
fulness to her. 

“ They are saying what a good pair we make ! Qui* 
dresses match beautifully, do they not? I am afraid it 
is no use your trying to get away from me, Mr. Win- 
yates ; we are such an admirable couple that it would 
be a general loss if we did not promenade together now 
and then.” 

“ I shall be only too honored,” said Philip, with a bow. 

You may well say so,” returned Lady Beltane. “ I 
have the best gown in the room. I make no apology 


LADY KESTLRTON'S BALL. 


291 


for telling you that, for you would have heard it before 
long from my enemies if not from my friends. They 
would have said that I was wasting my husband’s 
money on my gowns, Fortunately he can afford it.” 

There was a veiled insolence in her tone. Philip 
knew that she was trying to fling his poverty in his teeth. 

“ Look at my pearls,’’ said Lady Belfane negligently. 
“ I have not only a necklace of them but a long girdle, 
you see. And the front of my dress is pearl-embroidere4 
too. The one thing I objected to in this costume was 
the necessity, the CQstumer told me, that I was under 
of having a wig with little bunches of curls on either 
side — a la Henrietta Maria. I absolutely declined the 
wig, although I was told that to wear my hair in the 
ordinary state would quite spoil the costume. Do yoq 
think it does?” 

He was obliged to look at her. He had been trying 
to keep his eyes away from that dazzling vision of 
beauty and magnificence. He knew that she was 
longing for his admiration; and he was half-afraid— 
nay, more than ha,lf-afraid — that if he looked he should 
be compelled to give it. And he was in the mood when 
he wanted to reserve all his admiration for Elfrida. 

But now he was obliged to look. Her dress was 
exceedingly low, and her beautiful arms were bare. 
The train was of beautiful pale satin, and the under- 
dress of white brocade, embroidered as she had said, 
with pearls. The necklace and girdle were also of 
pearls ; and if they were real, must have cost fabulous 
sums. The costume was infinitely becoming to her, if 
not quite historically correct, and as Philip looked he 
was compelled to admire. Lady Beltane smiled tri- 
umphantly ; she had waited for that moment of unwilL 


292 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


ing admiration before she made a stroke that she had 
been resolved to make. The game was over indeed, as 
she had told herself ; but she might still amuse herself 
by a few haphazard attempts to renew it. 

“You have looked at me at last,” she murmured, in 
an entirely different tcgie of voice, “ and you have given 
me the courage that I lacked. I have been wanting to 
speak to you for days. Philip, will you not forgive 
me?” 

“ Lady Beltane, this is not a moment in which ,to 
speak of such things — ” 

“ Don’t be so hard, Philip. Don’t be so conventional. 
Any moment is the right one — at least for me. I want 
to tell you how bitterly I have repented of what I said 
the other night.” 

Her eyes softened ; she bit her beautiful lip as if she 
were embarrassed. Then she raised her fan so as to 
cover her mouth. 

“I was out of my mind, I think,” she said softly. 
“ I did not mean half I said. And I want — I do want, 
Philip — still to be your friend. ” 

“ No one can be my friend,” he said, after a troubled 
pause, “ who is not the friend of the woman I love. ” 

“ But I will be her friend,” she murmured. “I will 
indeed. I have been jealous of her power hitherto. 
She is so beautiful, Philip, that women cannot help be- 
ing jealous of her. But I will put that all aside. Only 
forgive me, and be friends with me, and I will love 
her — for your sake. Don’t be so harsh with me, Phil.” 

What man could resist this gentle flattery? Philip 
listened and relented. 

“ I did not mean to speak harshly,” he said, thinking 
that he had been very cruel towards this beautiful 


LADY KESTERTON'S BALL. 


293 


woman, who, after all, had loved him long and well ; 
“ and I am quite willing to be your friend if you will 
accept my friendship. I think you refused it before. ” 
“You are ungenerous!” she whispered. “ I refused 
it in my anger — in my — m)" despair. I wanted some- 
thing better than your friendship then. But I see now 
that it was a dream : I have thought better of all that. I 
want nothing but to be your friend and hers. ” 

“I shall be only too glad,” said Philip. “I never 
wanted to be at enmity withyoi/^ Beatrice.” 

The name slipped out unawares, and his voice had 
assumed its kindlier tones. Lady Beltane’s eyes shone 
with triumph : she knew that she had scored a success. 

“You will dance with me, will you not?” she said. 
“ I am going to dance a little — just a very little — and 
we can sit out for the rest of the time. And supper 
too — you will take me in to supper?” 

Philip winced. “ I thought I heard that you were to 
fall to Sir Anthony’s lot?” he said. 

“ Were you engaged to Elfrida?” she said, smiling at 
him. “ But you can have her too, you know. Oh, I 
won’t take any refusal: we are going home in a day or 
two, and you will perhaps never see me any more. But 
where is Elfrida, by the way? I have seen nothing of 
her as yet, and there have been the most remarkable 
rumors current about her dress. ” 

“ I suppose she is coming later,” said Philip quietly, 
although he had been asking himself the same question. 
“ There is Lady Betty— like a snowflake— :with Lord 
Beaulieu, I see.” 

“They make a nice pair, don’t they?” said Lady 
Beltane, indifferently. “ Of course you know that that 
has been settled for ag^s. I should think the marriage 


294 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


would take place soon, but Betty will arrange all that 
for herself. She is a wilful young woman.” 

“Why does not the dancing begin?” said Philip, ab- 
ruptly. He did not want to discuss Lord Beaulieu’s 
intentions then — he thought them already sufficiently 
plain. 

“ I thought you knew all about it,” exclaimed his fair 
partner. “Don’t you remember Sir Anthony’s whim? 
He wants the ball to open with a grapd quadrille of the 
fancy dresses. See, it is forming now — it has been 
arranged beforehand, I believe. You are not in it? 
Neither am I. I suppose they thought us tpo old to 
dance,” 

“ Why are they waiting, then?” 

“ Oh, Sir Anthony is to join in it— to open pro^ 
ceedings. I don’t see him yet.” 

“Perhaps I ought to go and look for him. I have 
really taken so little interest in this affair fhat I don’t 
know half the arrangements. As I am going away so 
soon — ” 

“Look! look!” cried Lady Beltane, pressing his arm 
violently. “Look! What an extraordinary thing.” 

Philip turned and stared, as the crowd around him 
turned and stared too. Then there arose a murmur of 
exclamations and comments. “ Why, it’s the picture 
on the wall!” “ How beautiful ! Who is she?” “That’s 
a real antique dress!” “And those ornaments — aren’t 
they the Kesterton diamonds? Surely not?” “What’s 
the lady’s name?” “ Miss Paston — Lady Kesterton’s 
governess. ” “ Lady Kesterton’s governess ! Then what 
does Sir Anthony mean by opening the ball with her?” 

That certainly was a question repeated more often 
than any other. Philip asked it of himself also, What 


LADY KESTERTON’s EALL. 295 

did Sir Anthony mean? The baronet had arrayed him- 
self like his ancestor of a hundred and fifty years before ; 
he might have figured as the father of the fair Elfrida, 
whose picture hung in full view upon the wall. And 
his partner, Elfrida herself, was dressed in the very 
costume that had been painted in the picture. Not a 
detail was wanting. The diamonds glittered on her 
neck; the rich brocade and laces were not wanting; 
and, more marvellous than all, the likeness between 
her and the portrait blazed forth unmistakably. What 
was equally unmistakable, also, was the likeness be- 
tween her and Sir Anthony. 

What did it all mean? Philip glanced round for 
Lady Kesterton. Her face was white with anger; her 
eyes glanced like blue steel. In spite of his dislike of 
her, Philip was a little sorry for the poor woman. He 
knew something of the hatred and jealousy that she had 
exhibited so often towards Elfrida ; and he guessed that 
her husband’s eccentric behavior caused real suffering 
to her. As to Sir Anthony, he preserved in perfec- 
tion the calm, unruffled courtesy of manner for which 
(in public) he was renowned. He did not seem in any 
way disturbed by the whispers and comments which 
must have reached his ear. He looked complacently at 
his partner, and occasionally addressed a polite and 
smiling sentence to her. Elfrida, on the contrary, 
seemed more frightened than elated. To Philip it was 
very plain that she had been in some way trapped into 
her present position ; probably it had never been in her 
mind when Sir Anthony offered her his arm that he had 
meant to dance with her. Her face was now flushed, 
now pale. From time to time she looked round, as if 
seeking for protection from some unknown danger. 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


296 

Her eyes were widely-opened, and her lips trembled d 
little now and then. Nevertheless, she looked remark- 
ably handsome, and the little trace of agitation which , 
she betrayed was particularly becoming to her. 

“What does that mean?” said Lord Beaulieu in 
Philip’s ear. He was frowning in a way that was 
unusual to him. “ What is old Kesterton about?” 

“ Heaven knows !” said Philip dryly. “ But, after all, 
there is perhaps nothing strange in his choosing to dance 
with the most beautiful woman in the room!” 

“ She is that, isn’t she?” said Lionel. But, hang it 
all, I don’t quite like it, you know. He’s making her 
too remarkable. The dowagers are cackling like any- 
thing; and look at Lady Kesterton’s face.” 

Yes, Philip had looked. He was glad when the 
quadrille was over, and the dance went on in more usual 
fashion. The first effect of Sir Anthony’s proceeding 
was to render Elfrida at once the beauty of the ball. ■ 
She was besieged by requests for a dance; and she ' 
would probably have been on her feet till three o’clock 1 
in the morning if Lady Kesterton had not intervened. ' | 

Philip, scenting danger, had managed to steer his j 
course in Elfrida ’s direction as soon as the dance was j 
over. Sir Anthony, evidently satisfied with his work, 
had gone away to another part of the room, and Elfrida ' 
was sitting on a little couch by the window, fanning > 
herself. Philip reached her just in time to see Lady. 
Kesterton cleave a way for herself among a little group 
of men who were hovering about the young lady, and 
to hear the words which she addressed to her. 

“Miss Paston,” she said, “I am extremely surprised < 
to see you here. I was not aware that you had been 
invited to be present. ” 


LADY KESTERTON'S BALL. 


297 


“I must refer you to Sir Anthony, Lady Kesterton,” 
said Elfrida, very quietly. 

“ I shall not refer to Sir Anthony at all. I merely 
wish to state my opinion of your behavior. Your 
dress, too — it is exceedingly out of place in this house. 
I hope that you will see the advisability — ” 

“ I hope, Lady Kesterton, that you will not forget that 
Miss Paston is at present in the position of your guest,” 
said Philip in her ear. She started a little, and hesi- 
tated, then recovered herself and answered majestically, 
“ Sir Anthony’s guest, not mine. I have nothing to do 
with Miss Paston ’s appearance here. However, I shall 
leave all further discussion of the matter until to- 
morrow. ” And she swept away, leaving Elfrida angry 
and discomfited, with her eyes full of tears ; and Philip 
in a greater rage than perhaps he had ever been conscious 
of in his life before. 

“ Never mind that ill-natured woman, Elfie,” he bent 
down and whispered. “ She is only angry because 
you look so beautiful. And no,body heard what she 
said— I took care of that. I kept the other fellows 
back. ” 

This was not strictly true, but it brought comfort to 
Elfrida ’s heart. 

“Did you really, Philip? How good of you! But 
indeed— indeed I think I had better run av/ay and hide 
myself. It was Sir Anthony’s doing — not mine. He 
came and fastened these diamonds into my dress, and 
he insisted on my dancing with him — I could not help 
it at all. I wish he had never done it !’’ 

“ I rather agree with you,” said Philip, but you had 
better not go away, It will only displease him, and it 
would not help you with Lady Kestertpu, We mUvSt 


298 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

talk the matter over to-morrow. Now don’t let me keep 
you from the dancers,” 

“ I shall not dance any more,” said Elfrida; and she 
kept steadily to her word, although she caused conster- 
nation in the hearts of her admirers by her refusal. 
She sat out dance after dance, but unfortunately she 
did not by such means disarm Lady Kesterton’s wrath ; 
for she became more than ever the centre of a group of 
men, who were only too delighted to talk to her. Sir 
Anthony’s behavior had aroused a host of rumors, 
some of which were as much to her advantage as others 
were to her discredit. The rumor most in favor was 
to the effect that she was a great heiress, masquerading 
as governess and poor relation simply from caprice — a 
rumor which brought more admirers to her feet than 
her beauty alone might have done. 

Lord Beaulieu held rather moodily aloof for some 
time, and it was Lady Betty at last who, by a few well- 
chosen words, sent him to her side. “ What does this 
all mean, Elfrida?” hp said to her in a vexed tone, as 
soon as he got the chance of speaking without being 
overheard. 

“ I can’t tell you, Lionel. I don’t know in the least-— 
but I think Sir Anthony means it kindly. Perhaps he 
remembers that it is my twenty-first birthday.” 

“ And I never sent you a present. Poor little girl ’ 
Never mind, you shall have one yet, Did you get any 
presents to-day?” 

“ Henry gave me this gold bangle, and Lady Betty 
this ring,” said Elfrida, with a happy smile and a 
blush. “And you sent me these roses, you know”— 
touching a bunch of dowers in her dress— “ and Sir An- 
thony^” 


LADY KESTERTOn’s BALL, 


299 

“ Well, Sir Anthony?” 

“He told me I was to keep these ornaments,” said 
Elfrida, looking down at the flashing pins that held the 
laces in their place. “ They are very pretty and look 
like diamonds, don’t they? But, of course, they must 
be paste?” 

“Of course . j I’m not so sure, 

though,” said Lord Beaulieu, with a critical glance at 
the ornaments. How they flash! I believe they are 
diamonds, Elfie. And he told you to keep them ? By 
Jove.'” 

He looked as though he did not like the gift. 

“ Perhaps they belonged to some relation of yours, ” he 
said, after a few moments’ reflection, “ and he has had 
to give them to you when you came of age. They are 
exactly like some pins I have seen Lady Kesterton 
wear — ” 

“She has them on to-night,” said Elfrida, eagerly. 
“ Oh, they must be only imitation, of course. I noticed 
the similarity.” 

“Sir Anthony is an old fool,” Beaulieu muttered to 
himself ; then, in a more audible voice : “ I am going 

to take you down to supper, Elfie — mind that.” 

“Oh, no, Lionel, I shall only offend a lot more 
people.” 

“ I don’t care for that. Sir Anthony is not going to 
be the only man who pays you attention. You will 
go in to supper with whatever Lady Kesterton may 
say,” said Lord Beaulieu in a masterful tone. 

But he had reckoned — in the most literal sense — 
without his host. When supper was ready he flew to 
claim his promise, and beheld to his amaze and dismay 
Sir Anthony walking down the room with Elfrida upon 


300 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

his arm. Poor Elfrida’s tell-tale face was crimson, arid 
her eyes were full of tears; but all the same she was 
being walked off to the supper-room by Sir Anthony 
himself; Beaulieu smothered an exclamation of rage 
between his lips and went in with Lady Betty; 

Sir Anthony had insisted on what he called “ an old- 
fashioned supper,” where covers were laid for every 
guest. It Was towards the close of a meal which was 
certainly the most uncomfortable at which Elfrida had 
ever been present, that he rose from his seat, and 
begged in the most amiable way possible to be allowed 
to say a few words. He looked so happy and beamed 
upon his guests so benevolently that there was really 
some foundation for his wife’s secret belief that he 
thoroughly enjoyed the discomfort that he had created. 

“ You may be surprised to hear,” he went on genially, 
“ that this is a birthday ball. This announcement was 
not publicly made beforehand for certain reasons of my 
own ; but I take this opportunity, when my friends are 
all gathered together, of making known to them the 
young lady in honor of whose twenty-first birthday they 
have been invited to this house. ” It was noticed that at 
this point Lady Kesterton turned deadly white and 
seemed in imminent danger of falling in a swoon from a 
chair. Sir Anthony turned gracefully to Elfrida, who 
sat beside him, and laid his hand paternally on her 
shoulder. “Let me introduce to you all,” he said, 
“ my — ” 

What was the noise that broke upon Sir Anthony’s 
measured words? Who was it that dared to break into 
the midst of that stately company, with stammering- 
lips and horror-stricken eyes? And what was it he 
said? 


LADY KESTERTOn’s BALL. 


301 


Oh, sir — Sir Anthony, sir — please stop — the west 
wing’s on fire, and we can’t none of us get to Mr. 
Henry’s room.” 

The glass dropped from Sir Anthony’s hand and fell 
to the ground, shivered into a thousand fragments. 
The peroration to his speech was never heard. 


CHAPTER XXVIl. 


THE END OF A FARCE. 

In a moment all was bustle and confusion. The 
guests rose to their feet : some made for the door, some 
of the more timid turned even towards the windows. 
There were some faint shrieks and sobs from the women ; 
one lady fainted in her chair. Even Sir Anthony, it 
was noticed, turned deadly pale and staggered as if he 
would have fallen. But Philip Winyates’ voice rose 
in clear though hurried tones above the hubbub. 

“It is in the west wing only, and there is no imme- 
diate danger to this end of the house. The ladies had 
better stay here; the men who will help, follow me.” 

And forthwith he dashed away, eagerly followed by 
a crowd of men and, in spite of his advice, by several 
of the women. Elfrida and Lady Betty had already 
disappeared. 

The supper-room was on the east side of the house, 
and the gallery had been deserted while the banquet 
was at its height ; hence the fact that the fire had been 
allowed to gain ground for some little time without 
being perceived. It seemed to have originated in the 
room between the kitchens and the suite occupied by 
Henry Paston, probably from some over-heating of the 
flues. When it was at length discovered, all possibility 
of reaching Henry’s room by means of the corridor and 
staircase from the kitchen was over ; and the picture- 
gallery was so full of blinding smoke that it seemed 

303 


THE END OF A FARCE. 


303 


impracticable to get to it that way. No fire-engine 
could be obtained without long delay; and although 
some contrivance of an old-fashioned nature for extin- 
guishing fire existed upon the place, there was difficulty 
in getting it to work. The gardeners, with their great 
garden hose, were more useful than any one else could be. 

“ The house will bum like tinder if the fire reaches 
the older part.” This was what the men whispered to 
each other with pale faces and anxious eyes. “And 
what about that young fellow in the west wing?” 

“ The garden-door — the side staircase” — those were 
the words that passed from Philip’s lips to Lord Beau- 
lieu’s ears. The two were side by side, straining every 
nerve to reach the place they named by the roundabout 
way that they were obliged to take. Both knew the 
danger that would be incurred in opening that side door 
and letting in a draught of air that might lash the 
flames to sudden fury ; but both were ready to take any 
risk, to go through any danger, for the sake of the lad 
they loved. The thought of Elfrida as a motive was 
at that moment almost scorned by them. Was it not 
enough that Henry Paston was a living human being 
in dire extremity? 

A little crowd had gathered outside that part of the 
building known as the west wing; water was being 
spouted at the smoking windows, but it seemed terribly 
ineffectual. There was a fitful red light in one of the 
rooms. Whether the fire had spread throughout was a 
matter of uncertainty, There was no time to lose when 
Philip and Lionel appeared upon the scene. 

“ Shall we try it?” said Beaulieu to his friend. Philip 
simply nodded, and threw off his velvet mantle and 
useless velvet cap as *he spoke; while Lionel tossed 


304 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

away as many of his gay trappings as he could get rid 
of in haste. They took the precaution of covering their 
mouths with wet handkerchiefs, and then they burst 
open the garden-door, whence a rush of hot air and 
smoke sent the crowd further back for a moment, but 
did not cause the two young men to pause. 

“I’ll go alone — go back,” Philip said abruptly to 
Beaulieu; but Lionel answered with equal curtness: 
“One alone can’t manage it; it will be difficult to 
carry him down.” 

And then they disappeared into the house, followed 
by a long cry from Elfrida, who had rushed forward, 
begging to follow them. “ Oh, let me go — let me save 
Henry! my poor Henry!” she cried, but she was forci- 
bly held back, and obliged to remain quiescent. Betty 
clung to her, begging her to be calm, to be patient, that 
Lionel and Philip were sure to succeed ; but her own 
lips were white, and her face expressed a depth of tragic 
misery which even Elfrida’s could not transcend. Sir 
Anthony stormed up and down the space in front of the 
house in uncontrollable agitation, offering unheard-of 
sums to any one who would go and help in the rescue 
of the boy; but nobody ventured forward: it was 
thought that the two who had already gone would 
scarcely return. There was a few minutes’ horrible 
suspense, that seemed like an eternity to those who 
awaited the issues of life and death. 

It was a strange scene, for the night was bright and 
peaceful, though cold, and its tranquillity contrasted 
strongly with the agonizing intensity of this struggle of 
men with the powers of nature. Thick volumes of 
smoke rolled from the crackling windows; ominous 
red gleams showed themselves here and there, hissing 


THE END OF A FARCE. 305 

beneath the streams of water that were poured upon 
them. A sullen roar and a strange crackling sound 
proved that the flames were still at work, although they 
had not gained an overwhelming mastery. In the 
shadow of the trees a huddled group of frightened 
women and helpless men watched in hushed horror the 
progress of the fire. An occasional wail or sob broke 
from the women, a muttered word was exchanged be- 
tween the men : otherwise all was still save for the roar 
and crackle of the fire. 

Suddenly a shout went up from the throats of all men 
present. From the bewildering flame and smoke a fig- 
ure had been seen to stumble forth — the figure of a 
man bearing a burden. He deposited it upon the 
grass, and then fell blindly down beside it. But in a 
minute or two he was able to sit up and speak. It was 
Lord Beaulieu, and he had rescued poor old Terry, who 
had been overcome by the smoke in trying to make her 
way to Henry’s room. But where was Henry himself? 
— and where was Philip? 

A louder shout than ever made itself heard as Philip 
Winyates, black with smoke, singed with fire, also 
strode forth at last with Henry’s helpless form on a mat- 
tress in his strong arms. It had been a difficult and 
dangerous matter, indeed, to save him ; and the difficulty 
was increased by Philip’s consciousness of Henry’s con-, 
dition. A rough movement would, he knew, cause the 
lad intense agony at any time ; how much more, then, 
when a shock to the nerves had been added, and the 
fear of death might make a man forget to be cautious 
and slow ! And yet he had done his task with courage 
and pity ; and the boy on his mattress was placed safely 
on the cool green grass outside the burning house, He 
29 


3o6 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


was insensible, certainly, but not a hair of his head had 
been singed. Philip was more in need of medical 
assistance than was he. 

A doctor happened to be present among the guests, 
and he was at once called to the front by Sir Anthony, 
while Elfrida and Betty both bent tenderly over the 
fainting lad. Sir Anthony’s agitation was marked in 
the extreme. His hands shook, his face was yellow 
and his lips livid in hue. His whole soul seemed to be 
absorbed in anxiety for Henry Paston. Every one com- 
mented on his demeanor with surprise. He had not a 
look or word now to spare for the burning house ; he 
had scarcely a glance for Philip. The outer world v/as 
evidently a blank for him. He hung over Henry as 
eagerly as the girls themselves were doing, and would 
not be satisfied without the doctor’s instant attention 
fo him. 

“It’s impossible to be quite certain whether he is hurt 
or not until he can be examined thoroughly, ” the doc- 
tor said ; “ but we can at any rate try to restore con- 
sciousness. If it is only a simple faint he may be all 
right. Sir Anthony, but really,” as Sir Anthony made 
impatient exclamation, “it is impossible to say yet.” 

The restoratives that were applied produced their 
natural effect, however; and when Henry’s eyes were 
once more open, and his face had recovered its usual 
tinge, the doctor advised that he should at once be car- 
ried out of the night air. It was reported at the same 
time that the fire was being got under, and it was con- 
sidered safe to repair to the other end of the house, as 
there was now not the slightest likelihood of its spread- 
ing further. 

The doctor then turned his attention once more to his 


THE END OF A FAECE. 


307 

other patients, but one of them was beyond his aid. 
All efforts to revive poor Mrs. Terry had failed. She 
had fallen a victim to her love for the boy she had 
tended so long and so faithfully. It was in a supreme 
effort to reach his bedside that she had been overcome 
by the smoke, and had fallen to the ground, never to 
rise again. The doctor advised that the knowledge of 
her death should be kept from Henry until he had been 
Seen by his own medical attendant; and he counselled 
also that Elfrida^ wlio was very much shocked and 
grieved by Terry’s death, should have no conversation 
with him at present. Henry was accordingly carried 
to the main portion of the house — for the first time in 
his life since the days of his babyhood. 

“ Where shall we take him, sir?” one of the servants 
had asked. 

And to every one’s infinite surprise, vSir Anthony had 
answered sharply : 

“ To my dressing-room, of course. All the bedrooms 
in the house are full. Here, Phil, you know more about 
his ways than any one else — I hope you are not hurt, by 
the way — can’t you come and look after him a little?” 

“ Mr. Winyates’ hands want binding up. Sir Anthony ; 
one of them is severely burnt,” said the doctor. 

“Don’t come, Phil; I can tell them what to do,” 
Henry’s faint voice was heard to murmur. Then — in a 
firmer voice — “ Where is Terry? Is Terry hurt? She 
looks after me better than any one else. ” 

“Presently, my boy, presently; she’s a little over- 
come, and must be left quiet for a time,” said the sur 
geon ; and Henry, with one shuddering glance around 
him which made his friends fear that he had already 
divined the truth, hid his face with the rug that had 


3*8 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


been thrown over him and was borne quietly away, SiT 
Anthony following in the rear of the procession. 

By degrees the excitement and confusion abated. 
The fire was now only smouldering, but had to be 
watched lest it should break forth anew. The crowd 
of gazers dispersed, and the guests who lived in the 
neighborhood stole quietly away, while those who were 
staying in the house gathered in each other’s room to 
discuss the events of the evening. Now that tjie fire 
had turned out to be nothing very serious (for the death 
of poor old Terry did not count for much in the eyes of 
Lady Kesterton’s fine friends), a general sense of injury 
began to make itself felt. Sir Anthony was not popular, 
and had rendered himself more unpopular than ever by 
his actions of that iiight. The way in which he hM 
distinguished Elfrida Paston was incomprehelisible, if 
she were only what she had hitherto seemed to be. 
And if not, who was she ? That was the very question 
that was on the point of being solved, when the fiTe 
broke out and put an end to Sir Anthony’s speech. 
“One would imagine,” said an impatient lady, “that 
he had prepared the fire beforehand! It was really 
quite too apropos. But I suppose he will tell us to-mor- 
row morning. ” 

“Why don’t you ask the girl herself?” asked one of 
the impatient lady’s friends. 

“ I did, and she stared at me with her great eyes and 
declared that she did not know. Do you believe it?” 

“ What does Lady Kesterton say?” 

“ I have not had a word with her since the alarm of 
fire ; she went into violent hysterics then, and has been 
in her room ever since they found that she might be 
taken there safely. But I don’t believe she knows. 


THE END OF A FARCE. 


309 


There always was some mystery about those Pastons, 
though I believe it is well known that their mother was 
a mere peasant woman.” 

“ It’s a most extraordinary affair. What a pity the 
fire broke out just then ! In another moment we should 
have known. ” 

“ Unless the girl is really somebody, it was an insult 
to the county to put her at the head of the table and 
lead tile quadrille,” said onfe lady, in a very dry and 
unpleasant voice; 

“ But Sir Anthony would not be so mad as all that!” 
cried one of her friends ; and there the discussion ended, 
for there was really no more to be said. 

Meanwhile Elfrida was crying herself to sleep in 
Lady Betty’s arms; for it was Betty who had come to 
her rescue and saved her from the feeling of hopeless- 
ness and homelessness which would have inevitably 
supervened on the excitements and disasters of the 
.evening but for Betty’s gentle care. There was no one 
else to look after her; none of the servants had ever 
waited upon her except Terry, and now that poor Terry 
was gone Elfrida was desolate indeed. The west wing — 
her home and place of refuge — was uninhabitable, and 
there was no bedroom left empty in the whole house, 
which had been packed full of visitors for the ball. 
But Lady Betty bore Elfrida away to her own blue-and- 
white room, undressed her, put her to bed, and consoled 
her as well as she could. “And after all,” she said, 
“ Henry is safe — and Beaulieu, and Mr. Winyates. So 
have we not a good deal to be thankful for?” 

“Yes, I know,” Elfrida sobbed, “but poor Terry — I 
cannot help thinking of poor Terry. ” 

• She slept at last, however. It was Betty who stayed 


310 


sik Anthony’s secret. 


awake and pondered over the complications of the past 
and future. 

Philip had helped, in spite of his injured hand, in 
settling Henry in his new apartment. The camp bed- 
stead in Sir Anthony’s dressing-room was more comfort- 
able than such bedsteads usually are — perhaps because 
everything belonging to Sir Anthony was sure to be a 
trifle more luxurious than if it belonged to anybody 
else in the house. He sat with the lad until Henry 
seemed to be asleep, and then he ^tole noiselessly away, 
meeting Sir Anthony prowling about the passages as he 
went. The baronet stopped him^ putting a finger on 
his arm, and looking him straight in the face. 

“ Is he asleep?” 

“ I think so, ” said Philip^ gravely. 

He would have passed on, but Sir Anthony held him 
still. 

“ I owe you a debt, Phil.” 

“ Do you, sir?” 

“ You are very short in your rejoinders. Don’t you 
know what I mean? If that boy had died in the 
fire—” 

His voice shook a little. He broke off, withdrew 
his fingers from Philip’s arm, and looked away. 

“ I was not aware, sir,” said Philip, with stiff abrupt- 
ness, “ that you cared whether Henry Paston was alive 
or dead. ” 

“ You were mistaken, then. I care a good deal.” 

“You take an extraordinary way of showing it,” said 
Phil, who could not resist the opportunity of displaying 
an exasperation of anger which had been growing upon 
him throughout the evening. His remark seemed to 
have the effect of bringing Sir Anthony back to one of* 


THE END OF A FARCE. 


311 

his more usual moods. He turned toward Philip again, 
and laughed in his mocking, sarcastic way. 

“ It has been excellent fooling, ” he said. “ I have 
tricked the whole world — you and my wife and all. I 
have laughed at you in my sleeve. It has been an. 
excellent jest, and I have enjoyed it thoroughly.” 

“ Have the others enjoyed it — those on whom the 
jest has been played?” asked Philip sternly. 

“Ah, I can’t help that,” said Sir Anthony, with a 
shrug of his shoulders. “ But” — with an intent look at 
Philip — “it’s time the farce was ended now. I have 
had enough of it. It is played out.” 

“ It would have ended to-night, I suppose, but for this 
outbreak of fire, You were about to tell us — ” 

“Ah, yes, I was about to say something, was I not?” 
said Sir Anthony, with indifference. “Well, you will 
hear all about it in course of time. You may wait a 
little longer now, as you did not hear it to-night. ” 

“ Considering my affection for Elfrida — ” Philip be- 
gan with passion, but he was interrupted by Sir An- 
thony’s cackling, sneering laugh. 

“ Your affection must bear a little strain. Not that 
your affection ” — with scornful emphasis— “ is a reason 
with me for speaking or keeping silence : it weighs next 
to nothing, sir, let me tell you, with me. You will not 
marry Elfrida : there is a much more brilliant destiny 
in store for her. I shall see her Lady Beaulieu, I hope, 
before I die.” 

He hobbled away, holding his dressing-gown tightly 
round him, and laughing to himself as he went down 
the long passage. Philip looked after him for a minute 
or two witb a sensation of mingled rage and despair. 
He could not fathoni his cousin’s meaning in the least; 


312 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


but he had a distinct conviction that the meaning was 
not altogether a benevolent one. He felt as if he and 
Elfrida and Henry were all at this old man’s mercy. 
Their misery or their happiness depended entirely upon 
his caprice. 

vSir Anthony had been to inspect the scene of the fire 
once more, and having assured himself that there was 
no likelihood of its breaking out again, came back to 
his dressing-room. The scent of fire and smoke was 
still in his nostrils, and he was glad to escape from it 
to the perfumed warmth of his own domicile. His 
dressing-room, as we have mentioned before, formed 
one of a suite of rooms, of which it was the last. Next 
to it came his bedroom, then a little sitting-room com- 
municating with Lady Kesterton’s apartments. Sir 
Anthony went first into the sitting-room, and glanced at 
the door of his wife’s room. All here was silent: the 
door was shut, and no gleam of light came from be- 
neath it. He nodded, as if well satisfied ; then walked 
through his bedroom into the dressing-room, closing, 
but not absolutely shutting, the doors behind him. 
The light was dim, for the fire, although heaped high 
with coal, gave out only a dull red glow, and the 
lamp was turned down to a mere glimmer. Sir An- 
thony shaded his candle with his hand and looked to- 
ward the low, narrow bed in the corner. Was the boy 
asleep? 

He seemed to be, for no sound or movement could 
be distinguished. Sir Anthony drew nearer, with slow 
and — almost, it seemed— ^-reluctant footsteps; so near 
that he could see th§ delicate, pain-lined face upon the 
white pillow. Some thought of the past, perhaps, 
ipade htis broyr gontr^ct as he looked at tlae hgautiful, 


The end oe a farce. 


313 


Worti features, the tossed golden hair, the feverish color 
in the thin cheeks. He stood and gazed — fascinated, 
irresolute — not knowing whether to turn away or to dis- 
turb the sleeper, as he half wished to do. The problem 
was solved for him without his own will. The blue- 
veined eyelids quivered a little, and then were lifted 
from the dreamy violet eyes; the boy’s lip quivered 
with something like a faint smile as he murmured — 

“ I am awake. Did you want me?” 

Sir Anthony set down his candle. “ I think — after 
all — I have been wanting you for the last eighteen 
years,” he said, with a touch of enigmatic grimness, 
“ and never found it out till now. ” 

There was an instant’s pause, and in the stillness a 
distant timepiece was heard to strike the hour. It was 
four o’clock. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


ROUTED. 

“What does it all mean? Have I been dreaming?” 
said Henry, in a strange, bewildered way. “ I thought 
Terry was here. ” 

“ No, Terry is not here: she is resting,’* said Sir An- 
thony in a softened voice. “ Go to sleep again, if you 
can. Is there anything I can get you?” 

“ Oh, no, thank you. ” He was wide awake now. “ I 
remember,” he said, “ there was a fire and I heard Terry 
calling for help. ” He turned suddenly upon Sir An- 
thony. “ She is hurt — I know she is or she would have 
come to me before now — poor old Terry! Perhaps she 
is dead. Oh, please tell me. I must know. ” 

“Don’t disturb yourself,” said Sir Anthony sooth- 
ingly. “ She’s all right. You must put up with me for 
a nurse to-night — that’s all. The house is in confusion, 
and there’s no place for you to sleep in but this room. 
We could hardly do with any one else here too, could 
we?” he added, with a smile. 

The boy listened, only half convinced. “I feel as 
if something were wrong,” he muttered to himself. 
“ Perhaps it is only my fancy — ” 

“ Of course it is only your fancy. At least perhaps I 
should not say so when the west wing is half burnt 
down, and the ball has been spoiled, to say nothing of 
the supper and my speech.” 

314 


ROUTED. 


315 


“ The ball?” Henry repeated. “ Wasn’t it over?” 

“ Not half over. Are you comfortable, boy?” 

“May I have a drink of water?” 

Sir Anthony marched away in search of the carafe, 
and brought it with an odd smile upon his lips. He did 
not often wait upon anybody, he was reflecting ; indeed, 
he did not often wait upon himself. Here was a change 
in his habits ; he was pouring out water for this boy, 
and, curiously enough, he liked doing it. So small a 
service would hardly have been noticeable in an ordi- 
nary man; but Sir Anthony’s ingrained selflshness had 
made little efforts appear great to himself. 

“ I ought not to have troubled you — is there no one 
else here?” said Henry, as he took the tumbler frorn 
Sir Anthony’s hand. Then, rather timidly : “I’m afraid 
I ought to be lifted up — I can’t drink it like this. Never 
mind, I can do without the water very well.” 

“ Can’t I lift you up?” asked Sir Anthony. “ There’s 
no one else here. I think I could manage it if I tried.” 

“ Thank you. If you don’t mind, then. Just put your 
arm under my shoulders and lift me up a little way — 
that’s it. Thank you so much. I think you do it even 
better than Terry, although she’s had so much prac- 
tice. ” 

It is a law of human nature that we feel more kindly 
disposed than before toward the person to whom we 
have rendered even a small service ; and Sir Anthony 
formed no exception to this rule. He looked at Henry 
almost tenderly as he laid him back upon his couch. 

“ You are easy to lift, ” he said. Then he took a chair 
by the bedside and sat down, leaning one elbow on his 
knee, and his chin upon his hand. Henry watched the 
sharp profile, darkly silhouetted against the red fire^ 


3i6 sir Anthony’s secret. 

light, for several minutes in silence, Presently he spoke, 
but this time almost in a whisper. 

“You are very kind,” he said. You have always 
been very kind to me, I wish that I might ask you a 
question. ” 

“ You may ask what you like. I need not answer.” 

“ In the early part of the evening I heard that you had 
made Elfrida dance with you — before anybody else. 
Every one was talking about it. The servants came 
and told Terry ; and Terry told me. ” 

“Ah! Well, that is true enough. What then?” 

“ I want to know why you did it. ” 

Sir Anthony stroked his chin, and his thin lips re- 
laxed into a malicious smile. 

“ A host, young man, may surely please himself as 
to his partners?” 

“No, that’s exactly what he ought not to do,” said 
Henry quickly. “ He should put his likes and dislikes 
on one side, and think only of what will give pleasure 
to the guests.” 

“ Oh, so you know that much of a host’s duties, do 
you? But I choose-— sometimes— to set my duties aside 
and please myself. I wanted to dance with the pret- 
tiest girl in the room, and that happened to be Elfrida. 
Now you know all about it, and you had better go to 
sleep.” 

“I shall not sleep yet,” said the boy, with a gentle 
persistence that even Sir Anthony found it difficult to 
withstand ; “ and I so seldom see you that I should like 
to talk a little if you don’t mind. Unless )"ou were 
thinking of going to bed yourself just now?” 

“ Not yet. I am like you--not sleepy. What else do 
you want to know?” 


ROUTED. 


317 


“ Why you did it, sir. Because you must know that 
it would expose Elfie to ill-natured remarks. ” 

“You are bold,” said Sir Anthony, dryly. “Well, 
suppose I did — what then?” 

“ You must have had a reason. You would not will- 
ingly do her an injury.” 

Sir Anthony looked at the boy as if to detect some 
trace of sarcasm in his face or voice, but after a long 
gaze he turned back reassured. Sarcasm had no place 
in Henry’s gentle eyes. 

“ Why do you say that?” asked the baronet, after a 
prolonged pause. “ What reason have you to suppose 
that I would not do her — and you too — an injury if I 
saw fit?” 

Henry put out his hand and touched Sir Anthony’s 
lean wrist as it lay on the bedclothes — the movement 
was in itself a caress, “ You are too good,” he said. 

Sir Anthony muttered something under his breath. 
Was it a curse or blessing? “You don’t know me, boy, ” 
he said immediately afterward. “ You are the last per- 
son on earth who has cause to say that! No, listen — 
do not contradict. You know very well it was I who 
laid you here — my blow (for it was a blow, though I 
have never owned it before), given in a fit of passion, 
made you a cripple, my poor lad 1 And your mother. 
Good God! it’s enough to make her turn in her grave 
to hear you calling me ‘good’ !” There were few peo- 
ple on earth who had seen Sir Anthony so much moved. 

“ I don’t see why,” said Henry simply. “ Of course I 
knew about the — the push. I don’t believe you meant 
to strike me, and the results were entirely accidental. 
It might have happened to any one. But what you did 
was not what ‘any one’ would have done afterward; for 


3i8 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


you have done your best ever since to give me as much 
rest and ease as could be got for me ; you have done a 
tremendous amount for me, and for Elbe too, and I am 
grateful. You see I always understood how you felt — 
that you were sorry for me, I mean ; and I have 'v^anted 
for a long time to tell you that I knew.” 

To say that Sir Anthony was thunderstricken and 
confounded by these words would be understating the 
truth. He had never been so completely taken aback 
in his life. This boy— this invalid lad-r-of whorn he 
had thought so little, to whom he had been conternptu- 
ously and angrily generous rather than kind, had pener 
frated his motives, had judged him, had forgiven him, 
us a superior would have done, yet with perfect sim- 
plicity and tenderness. A rush of new emotion filled 
Sir Anthony’s heart. Perhaps for the first time in his 
life he felt both gratitude and contrition. 

He put out his fingers and grasped the slender hand, 
which still touched his wrist. 

“ You don’t know half,” he said, rather hoarsely, ‘‘ or 
you would uot speak to me as you do, Harry. Boy, 
don’t you know that I broke your mother’s heart?” 

He felt the boy’s pulses leap and ruce forward like a 
Startled horse. 

“ If you did”— the answer was low and tremulous — 

I am quite certain she forgave you, Sir Anthony.” 

“ I know she did, which makes the case all the worse 
for me,” said Sir Anthony sharply. “She was true 
and faithful enough, poor soul. It would have been 
better for you, Henry, if you had had Elfrida’s face. 
Whenever I looked at yours your mother seemed to 
reproach me from your eyes.” 

I know that it is only since I grew up that you have 


ROUtEl). 


been able to look at me. I noticed that years ago. 
But how — why — ” 

He stopped short in sudden distress and embarrass- 
ment. He wanted to know how it came about that Sit 
Anthony had had power to break his mother’s heart. 

“You had better not ask too many questions, ” said 
Sir Anthony, in somewhat agitated tones, “ or you will 
perhaps hear tnote than you bargain for. But — yes, 
there is something I will tell you— because you have 
trusted me, boy. Scarcely any one else has trusted me 
since she died. You were right in one thing: I was not 
intending to do Elfrida an injury to-night. I meant 
only to repair an injustice. If things had gone well— 
if it had not been for that unlucky, that accursed firej 
every one would have known the truth by this time, 
although it has been hidden for so many years. ” 

Henry lay still ; he was trembling from head to foot, 
and could not speak. Sir Anthony, absorbed in his own 
thoughts, took no notice of his agitation, but continued 
to speak — rather to himself than to the boy. 

“ Yes, I meant to tell the truth to-night. I had fixed 
the date for a good many years. On Elfrida’s twenty- 
first birthday, I had long said, I would set matters 
straight. Tricking the world was amusing enough for 
a time, but I wanted to see its face when it found out 
the trickery. My lady had been cheated as well as 
everybody else, and I should have liked to see her face 
when she was undeceived. It would have been rare 
sport, I tell you. But the fire spoilt my calculations, 
and I never amazed the world, as I meant to do, by my 
little announcement. Curse it all ! One would think 
sometimes that there was a Fate somewhere that laid 
itself out to spoil one’s arrangements.” 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


32 ^^ 

He lapsed into an abstracted silence, but when this 
had lasted some time Henry managed to find voice. 
“What did you mean to tell them, to-night, then?” he 
asked breathlessly. 

Sir Anthony woke up from his reverie, turned and 
looked at him and gently tapped the thin hand with 
his finger. 

“It concerns you, too,” he said, “as well as Elfrida, 
More than Elfrida, after all. Haven’t you guessed it 
yet? Don’t you know that you two are my eldest son 
and daughter, lawfully begotten of my wife, Mary, once 
Mary Derrick, and known afterward as Mary Paston? 
You will be Sir Henry Kesterton when I die, and Elfrida 
is heiress to her grandmother’s money and jewels. 
Those brats of my lady’s are penniless. . . . There’s 
the secret for you, my boy, that I meant to make known 
to-night. ” 

A strange gasping sound made itself heard in the 
room. A wild, dishevelled figure stood at the half- 
closed door. Henry lay motionless, unable to speak, 
almost unable to breathe, while Sir Anthony, slowly 
turning his head, smiled in almost diabolical fashion 
to see that his wife was present and had heard his every 
word. He rose from his seat and made her a low bow. 
All his better feelings seemed to have vanished; he 
was again the man that the world knew — cynical, heart- 
less, and indifferent. Otherwise he would have had 
some compassion for the gray-faced woman who stood 
clutching at the door-post, seeking to steady herself in 
the terrible faintness that had come over her when she 
learned for the first time the true story of her husband’s 
past, and the real position of her children. But there was 
nothing but malicious triumph in Sir Anthony’s face. 


kOUTED. 


321 


“ I could not have desired a better audience, ” he said. 
“ I have produced part, at least, of the sensation that I 
desired to make. And I congratulate you, madam, on 
the honorable means you take to procure informa- 
tion.” 

It seemed at first as if Lady Kesterton could not artic- 
ulate a word ; but she gasped out a broken sentence or 
two at the end of her husband’s speech. 

“ It’s a lie! It’s a lie!” she exclaimed. “ You say it 
to vex me — to torture me. You saw me standing there, 
and you invented the lie!” 

“On the contrary,” said Sir Anthony, pleasantly, “I 
have simply told the truth, which has been the truth 
any time these two-and-twenty years. I married Mary 
Derrick with all due forms and ceremonies, I can assure 
you, and my daughter Elfrida was born about twelve 
months afterward. My son and heir, Henry, is, as you 
know, a little younger. It would have been an agree- 
able surprise for our guests if I had been able to carry 
out my little plan and introduce Elfrida to them under 
her proper name, would it not?” 

“ I don’t believe a single word of it,” said Lady Kes- 
terton, who had by this time recovered her breath, but 
was still livid with rage. “ And if it were true — mind, 
I say only if it were true — you would be a perfect fiend, 
Anthony, and would bring down on yourself the repro- 
bation of all England.” 

“ Do you think I care for that?” said her husband, 
coolly. “ Don’t you know by this time that I rather 
enjoy provoking my countrymen’s indignation? It is 
nothing to me what the world thinks. Would the 
world’s reprobation alter the facts? The facts are that 
Henry and Elfrida are my two eldest children, and that 


322 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


your beloved J aney and Gerald are paupers, my lady, 
as you will be too if I choose.” 

“ No, no,” said Henry, speaking for the first time, but 
with vigor and decision such as no one had heard him 
use before. “ If this is true, father "' — he said the word 
with sudden tenderness — “ if this is really true, then 
you know that all the more consideration is needed for 
Janey and Gerald. You know very well that they shall 
not come off badly if Elfie and I can help it.” 

“ Ay, ay, the cockerel can crow on occasions, it seems !” 
was Sir Anthony’s comment — made, however, in no 
unfriendly tones. “ Well, you shall have your way, 
Harry — you’ve had little enough of it hitherto. You 
shall dower Janey and give Gerald a younger son’s por- 
tion, if you please — and then perhaps you will teach my 
lady to be ashamed of the slights and insults she has 
heaped upon you both. I have seen them all, and 
meant to requite them, but I bided my time. I knew 
the day would come when my lady would be only too 
glad to eat her own words, to lick the dust for her pre- 
cious children’s sake — ” 

“ I will not listen to your coarse insults, Sir Anthony !” 
said Lady Kesterton, quivering from head to foot. 
“ And as to your insolent offers of help, you wretched 
cripple, I would die sooner than take a penny from 
your hands. I would beg my bread from door to door 
sooner than be beholden to you. If this is true, I will 
leave the house to-morrow — to-day I should say — for I 
will never live in a place where my children are to be 
considered inferior to a common servant’s children. I 
always believed them to be yours, but I never thought 
that you would have the audacity to foist them upon 


ROUTED. 


323 


me as your legitimate offspring. The house will not 
hold them and me any longer. " 

“Very well,” said Sir Anthony, “I dare say we can 
exist without you. But I doubt whether, under the 
circumstances, the courts would give you custody of the 
children. If you go, therefore, you will leave them be- 
hind — to my daughter’s guardianship.” 

Lady Kesterton wrung her hands. “Anthony, you 
are cruel — cruel and wicked ! My children ! my chil- 
dren!” And then she broke down and sobbed, though 
without a single tear in her burning eyes. 

“Lady Kesterton,” began Henry, earnestly, but not 
perhaps very wisely, “ believe me — ” 

“Believe you!” she cried, turning upon him fiercely. 
“ I will believe you as soon as I will believe him, you 
false, cringing, fair-spoken wretch, as crooked in body 
as your father is crooked in soul! You have concocted 
this plot between you to keep my children out of their 
right ; but you will find that I can be a match for you 
yet ! There is not a man or woman who has been at this 
ball last night but will swear that you are mad. Sir 
Anthony Kesterton — mad to set the prejudices of the 
world at defiance, and behave as wildly as you did! 
Who knows but that it was you yourself who set fire to 
the west wing? I myself heard it suggested — I believe 
it is true. And when you are shut up in a mad-house, 
and this wretched lad is sent to prison or the work- 
house, I don’t care which, then we will see who is to be 
the master of Kesterton.” 

“ It will not be your son, at any rate,” said Sir An- 
thony, with a sneer. “ I shall take care of that. You 
are more likely to be locked up than I, my lady, if you 
go on raving at that rate. But you have done for your- 


324 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


self and for your children. Not a penny shall they 
touch, either in my lifetime or after it, and their 
brother shall not help them. They shall be beggars^ 
madam” — his voice rising to a hoarse cry of wrath as 
he proceeded — “and if they were starving in the streets 
I would not give them or you a crust. Leave this room ! 
You shall never enter it again. It is my first wife and 
my first wife’s children whom I mean to honor now.” 

He raised his gaunt arm so threateningly as he spoke 
that Lady Kesterton fied in terror. He stalked after 
her for a few steps, then waited at the door until he 
heard her lock herself into her room. At that sound 
his anger seemed to evaporate. He broke into a low, 
discordant laugh, and turned gleefully to the bed. 

“ Routed !” he said. “ Routed — with great loss. But 
she deserves it, if only for her conduct to you.” 

He spoke to Henry, but Henry did not hear. He had 
fainted away, and it took Sir Anthony some time, and 
gave, him some odd qualms of remorse and anxiety 
before he could restore the boy to consciousness. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


THE SHADOW OF SIN. 

As soon as Lady Kesterton had gained her own room, 
she cast herself down on the bed and wept bitterly ; 
but she was not a woman to whom tears were easy or 
natural. Before long she was pacing the floor with 
agitated, uneven steps, with burning eyes and clinched 
hands, revolving in her own mind various schemes for 
defeating the plot which she declared to herself had 
been concocted in order to ruin her children’s chances 
in the world. 

She said this to herself, but as a matter of fact she 
did not believe it. She had had quite enough experi- 
ence of Sir Anthony’s ways to know that he was not 
likely to take the trouble to concoct anything. She 
was certain in her own mind that he had spoken the 
truth. She had been befooled all these years, and on 
the morrow all the world would know that she had been 
befooled. She had paraded her boy as the heir of Kes- 
terton Park : all her friends knew how proud she had 
been of him, and how she had rejoiced in his prospects. 
All her friends knew how bitterly she had hated the 
Pastons, and how glad she had always been to injure 
and humiliate them in every possible way. And now 
they turned out to be Sir Anthony’s eldest legitimate 
children, after all, and her children would have to take 
a lower place. Her children would be penniless, unless 
Sir Anthony chose to enrich them. She knew the terms 

325 


326 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


of Lady Kesterton’s will by heart. It was to Anthony’s 
eldest boy and girl that the old lady had bequeathed 
her wealth; and hitherto Sir Anthony’s wife had been 
happy in the thought that Gerald and Janey would 
benefit by that will. But to see Elfrida in Janey’s 
place, to see Henry some day wearing the title which 
Gerald ought to have worn — this seemed to Lady Kes- 
terton a perfectly intolerable state of things. 

In the cold fury of her mood she still said to herself 
that she would not live in the house a day longer if 
Henry and Elfrida were to take her children’s places. 
But she knew in her heart that independent action was 
next door to impossible. She had a liberal settlement, 
and she did not suppose that Sir Anthony would carry 
out his threat of driving her from the house ; but she 
was sure that he would not let her take the children 
away, and she could not but confess to herself that life 
would be nothing to her without Janey and Gerald. It 
was chiefly for their sake that she felt Sir Anthony’s 
revelation so keenly. It was their loss that she grieved 
over, or so at least she told herself. If Gerald were 
ever to be master of the house, she knew that she, his 
mother, would still have the dignity and consideration 
of a great lady, even when vSir Anthony was dead. 
Lady Kesterton had no illusions about her husband. 
She knew very well that he was much less strong than 
he imagined himself to be; that he might die at any 
moment — his doctor had told her so. She was not par- 
ticularly anxious about him, and she would not be soriy 
when he died. But oh, what a difference it would 
make to her if he were to die and Henry take his place ! 
Henry’s house could be no home of hers; and she hated 
Henry accordingly. It was a horrible downfall. 


THE SHADOW OF SIN. 


327 


All that could have softened such a blow was wanting. 
If there had been any kindliness of feeling between 
Elfrida and herself, any pity for Henry, any sympathy 
or tenderness, matters would not have been half as 
bad. But there had been nothing of the kind. Ever 
since -she first entered the house she had scorned the 
helpless creatures who were dependent to some extent 
upon her mercy. She had snubbed and humiliated 
Elfrida ; she had treated Henry with systematic care- 
lessness and neglect. If Sir Anthony had not compelled 
her to do his bidding, she would have denied them 
house-room, clothing, teaching — all the things that 
their father had provided for them, if he had done noth- 
ing else. Of Henry’s character she knew little, for she 
had scarcely ever spoken to him ; but between herself 
and Elfrida there was something almost like enmity — a 
passionate sense of wrong on the one side balanced by 
a cold, contemptuous dislike upon the other. 

Then, to add to her unhappiness, she had never before 
realized how completely Sir Anthony had always dis- 
trusted her. She did not love him; no element of 
wounded affection entered into her bitterness ; but she 
was a proud woman, and she did not like to feel that 
she had never been taken into her husband’s confidence. 
All the world, too, would know this now. All the world 
would know that she had been tricked and duped, and 
that Sir Anthony had been laughing at her in his sleeve 
all the while. As she thought of this she felt that she 
hated Sir Anthony. She had hated a good many peo- 
ple in her life — she had a great capacity for hatred — 
but seldom had she hated any one so intensely as she 
hated her husband now. She sat with dry eyes and 
tightly-clasped hands, wishing with all her heart that 


328 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


he was dead. She wished for Henry’s death, too, but 
she wished most of all that Anthony Kesterton were 
dead and buried, and out of her poor little Gerald’s 
way. 

She had no notion how dangerous was the line which 
her thoughts were taking. She had always considered 
herself a moral and religious woman ; she was indeed 
only a very conventional one. Hitherto her convention- 
ality had kept her within ordinary bounds; she had 
not really wanted to do anything that the world would 
have condemned. But in her heart Lady Kesterton 
never balanced the claims of “right” and “wrong.” 
She did the things that seemed expedient to her, and 
thought that the end sanctified the means. This worked 
well as long as her life was untouched by any great 
passion, by any great temptation ; but when the hidden 
forces of her nature were let loose, and there was no 
habit of restraint, who could tell what evil might not 
be the result? 

And now she awoke for the first time to the conscious- 
ness of passions that were stronger than herself — ele- 
mental forces which had hitherto been concealed be- 
neath the silken exterior of her daily life. Mother-love, 
which had once seemed so beautiful and so innocent, 
suddenly became something stronger and fiercer than 
the hunger' of a wild beast for blood. Hatred, a power 
which she had veiled under the names of justice and 
uprightness, worked like a fever in her veins. She was 
dominated by the two passions, and love, pity, mercy, 
were as though they had never been. She felt as if she 
could have gladly taken Henry by the throat and stran- 
gled him rather than let him come between her little son 
and his good fortune. This course of action was, fort- 


THE SHADOW OF SIN. 329 

unately, an impossibility. Was there anything else 
that could be done? 

Fraud and cunning might perhaps achieve her end. 
It would perhaps be better for her children if she went 
to Sir Anthony and humbled herself, asked his pardon 
for the bitter words that she had uttered, and made 
interest for her children with Henry and Elfrida. Her 
soul sickened at the thought of abasing herself in this 
way, and yet — yet for her children’s sake she was ready 
to do it. She might soften Sir Anthony by her plead- 
ing so far as to make him hide the fact that she had not 
been in his confidence; and she might induce him to 
take back what he had said about disinheriting Janey 
and Gerald. Surely, if she were very humble, very 
penitent, he would consent to give them the usual por- 
tion of younger children in the Kesterton family ! She 
would do anything for their sakes. 

Full of these thoughts, she rose, resolving to go at 
once to Sir Anthony. She must see him before she 
faced the world. He might be asleep, but he slept little 
as a rule, and, if he had not taken his sleeping draught, 
might still be sitting up, or lying awake brooding over 
his projects for the morrow. Although he had driven 
her from his presence with fiaming eyes and words of 
wrath, she was not afraid to go back to his room. Eva 
Kesterton was by no means a coward. She opened her 
door ; the little sitting-room was dark. She crossed it 
softly, pushed open the further door, and peeped into 
Sir Anthony’s bedroom. Flere a lamp was lighted, and 
a fire burned low ; but the room was empty. Sir An- 
thony was still with Henry, and she could not venture 
to disturb him there. 

“ Is he not coming to bed at all to-night, then?” said 


330 


SIR ANTHONY’S SECRET. 


Lady Kesterton, advancing a few steps into the room 
and looking around her with a feeling of angry defeat. 
She had never thought of finding him away. “ vSurely 
he will come soon — he will want a little rest!” She 
listened for a moment, and heard a clock strike five. 
A new day would soon begin, and something must be 
done, something must be decided before the dawn. 
With morning would come the proclamation to the world 
of the most crushing failure of her life. Oh, if she could 
only silence Sir Anthony’s lips before the day began ! 

She turned her eye toward his bed, and to the little 
table at the bedside ; and if an observer had been by, 
he would have seen that her face became suddenly of a 
deadly whiteness. She stood for a minute or two like 
one turned to stone, and then began to tremble — stood 
there trembling like one upon whom has fallen the 
shadow of a mortal fear. 

For the first time in her life a great temptation had 
come in her way. 

It was a desperate thing that she thought of : an expe- 
dient which at a calmer moment would never have 
occurred to her. She had said to herself a little while 
before that she wished Sir Anthony was dead. Dead 
before he could blazon his secret to the world; dead be- 
fore he could take her child’s inheritance and give it to 
another. Yes, she wished he would die — die before the 
morning. And there, on the table beside the bed, 
might be found the means of accomplishing her end. 
On the table there was a fiuted blue bottle which con- 
tained enough chloral to send him into a sleep from 
which there would be no awaking. If he would but 
take it — if she could but give him a little overdose — 
things might go smoothly for her and her children yet. 


THE SHADOW OF SIN. * 33I 

She saw with a supernally quickened eye how easily 
the thing could be brought about. He took his draught 
whenever he wanted to sleep; perhaps, however, he 
would not want to sleep that night. But there was a 
cup of cold milk upon the table ; this he was quite sure 
to drink. During the past few weeks, as Lady Kester- 
ton well knew. Sir Anthony’s sense of taste had been 
curiously deadened. A bad cold seemed to have de- 
stroyed the sensitiveness of his palate, and the faculty 
of taste had not returned when the cold was cured. 
This absence of discrimination as regarded tastes would 
be her safegnard. Even if the milk had an unusual 
flavor, he would probably not notice it. And if the 
dregs in the glass were examined next da)q it would be 
nothing unusual to find chloral in them. It would sim- 
ply be supposed that he had taken a larger dose than 
usual. The only danger would be if he happened to 
know how much chloral there had been in the blue bot- 
tle the night before. He might notice that a large quan- 
tity of it had gone ; and he 7night take alarm — and make 
inquiries. But, on the whole, it was not very likely 
that this would come to pass. 

And the advantage ? What would that be ? It crossed 
her mind that some one in the world must surely know 
the story of Sir Anthony’s first marriage. Was there 
no lawyer or clergyman who was aware of the truth? 
Lady Kesterton remembered that the old solicitor, 
Watson, had always looked at her with strange, doubt- 
ful, curious eyes. But he was dead, and his successor 
had never possessed Sir Anthony’s confidence. No, 
there was a chance — a very good chance— that the mar- 
riage could not be substantiated after Sir Anthony’s 
death. Henry’s testimony would go for nothing — it 


332 ^ SIR ANTHONY'S SECRET. 

could easily be disposed of — and her boy, Gerald, would 
have “ his rights. ” Or, if not, at any rate, Anthony 
would be no longer there to jeer at her, to enjoy his tri- 
umph, to slight her and her children ! How she hated 
him at that moment! How she longed to see him 
lying dead ! 

Long as these thoughts take to transcribe, they flashed 
with lightning speed through Lady Kesterton’s mind. 
vShe stood still only for the space of about two minutes. 
Not one thought of pity, of conscience, or of God’s law, 
held her back. She simply considered the possibility 
and the safety of the course she was about to take. 
And it seemed feasible enough — feasible and expedient. 
She was conscious of nothing so much as of a fierce and 
overmastering desire to triumph over Sir Anthony, if 
only by seeing him lie dead before her while she still 
lived to have her wicked way. 

It was a mad act ; one which could scarcely escape 
detection, when executed by a woman so unskilled in 
crime as Lady Kesterton had been until that moment. 
But it was an act prompted by a rush of passion which 
she had no means of calming or controlling. These 
hidden forces of our natures, if unchecked, sometimes 
bring ruin in their wake. 

Lady Kesterton crossed the room, quickly but silently. 
She took the blue bottle in her hand and poured its 
contents, with unwavering decision, into the cup of 
milk. Then she put the bottle into the pocket of her 
dressing-gown, and turned to leave the room. It was 
at that moment that Sir Anthony, hearing a vsudden 
rustle, walked quietly to the door of the dressing-room 
and looked at her. 

He had not seen her previous movements. He sim- 


THE SHADOW OF SIN. 


333 


ply saw her leave his table; she did not look round 
until she reached the door. Then she glanced toward 
the dressing-room and saw him regarding her with a 
grim smile upon his features. She was utterly terri- 
fied, for she believed that he had seen all that she had 
done. She did not, however, attempt to speak. She 
uttered a faint shriek and rushed back to her own room 
as if all the Furies of Justice and Revenge were at her 
heels. There she locked the door, and flung herself face 
downward upon the floor. Every moment she expected 
to hear his voice or his knuckles hammering at the 
panels. But no sound came. She lay quivering in 
every nerve until the gray dawn looked in at the win- 
dows, and certain noises from the outside world told 
her that the household was astir. Then she rose to 
her feet and crept into bed, hiding the bottle beneath 
her pillow in a desperate resolve to conceal it from 
everybody’s eyes. 

Sir Anthony glanced at the table, from which he felt 
convinced that she had taken something, then shrugged 
his shoulders and went back to Henry’s bedside. 

“ What is it?” the boy said faintly. 

“ Only Lady Kesterton.” 

“ Does she want you? Don’t let me keep you.” 

“ I am the last person she is likely to want. I sup- 
pose she cannot sleep — she has taken my chloral away 
with her. ” 

“She won’t — take — 

“Too much? Not she. My lady always looks after 
her own safety. Oh, no, she wants a refreshing nap 
before morning — that is all.” 

“ I think I shall sleep now,” said Henry. 

“ Shall you, boy? Then I’ll lie down and get a rest. 


334 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


too. Philip said he would be in by seven. You’re 
sure you won’t want anything?” 

“ Quite sure, thank you. ” He was drowsy already — 
almost too drowsy to respond. Sir Anthony laid his 
hand for a moment on his son’s forehead. 

“Good-night, then — or rather, good-morning,” he 
said. “ But perhaps good-night is more appropriate. 
Good-night, my dear boy.” 

“ Good-night — father.” And then Henry was asleep. 

“I may as well get asleep, too,” reflected Sir An- 
thony, as he entered his own room. “ Good thing I 
told them not to call me until I rang. Ha! here’s my 
milk — I’ll drink it before I lie down. I shall wake 
easily if Henry calls. ” 

He drank the milk down at a draught, without notic- 
ing anything amiss ; then leisurely finished undressing, 
and slipped quietly into bed. He felt unusually drowsy — 
he was glad to think that he would not have to appear 
next morning until he chose. Philip would see to 
Henry. 

And then he slept. 

The dark shadow that, to Henry’s prevision, seemed 
to hover more deeply around Lady Kesterton than over 
any other man or woman in the house, was surely no 
shadow of misfortune, but of sin ! 


CHAPTER XXX. 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 

It was not to be expected that any one in the house 
would be up early on the morning after such an exciting 
night. Even the servants slept late; and none of the 
guests appeared until nearly noon. Lady Kesterton’s 
maid brought a message from her mistress to the effect 
that she was not well enough to appear at breakfast ; 
and everybody declared that her indisposition was per- 
fectly natural. “ After such a trying day,” as one lady 
sympathetically remarked, “it would be a wonder if 
poor Lady Kesterton were not upset. ” 

The one exception to the rule of lateness that morning 
was in Philip’s case. He entered the dressing-room at 
seven o’clock, as he had promised to do, and finding the 
boy tranquilly asleep, sat down by the fire with a book 
in his hand and read for an hour or two. Once he went 
to Sir Anthony’s room and looked in. But Sir Anthony 
was also asleep ; so Philip came back and closed the door 
of communication. 

Henry did not awake until nine o’clock. Then Philip, 
with some difficulty, procured breakfast for him. After 
the meal he had the painful task of telling him of Terry’s 
death. He was afraid that the lad might hear it from 
inconsiderate lips, and had decided that he must be told 
as early in the day as possible. Henry was much moved ; 
he had suspected something amiss all along, in spite of 

335 


33^ 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


Sir Anthony’s attempt to quiet him; and he mourned 
for his old nurse as if she had been his own kindred. 

Of his conversation with Sir Anthony, he did not 
speak. He was secretly longing to discuss with Philip 
the communication that had been made to him ; but a 
delicate sense of honor forbade him to open his lips 
without his father’s permission. Sir Anthony would 
tell the world — it was not for the son to speak first. 
Besides, the gain to him would be loss to others ; and 
therefore Henry thought it better to be silent. Not 
even to Elfrida, when she stole into the room, did he 
breathe a word about their changed position. He had 
complete faith in Sir Anthony. Sir Anthony would tell 
everything that should be told. 

About noon Lord Beaulieu was heard inquiring for 
Sir Anthony, and was told by the valet that his master 
had said he was not to be disturbed. “ Master’s having 
a long sleep this morning, I dare say,” said the man; 
“ he was a good bit disturbed in the night, so I think 
he’s just taken his draught and means to have it out. 
It’s as much as my place is worth to go into Sir Anthony’s 
room when he’s ordered me not to disturb him, my lord. ” 
So Beaulieu could not press for admission. 

It was not until two in the afternoon, when m.en were 
coming for orders and officials were waiting for instruc- 
tions, that any anxiety began to be felt respecting Sir 
Anthony’s non-appearance. The valet came to Philip 
first, with some doubt expressed upon his face. “ If you 
please, sir,” he said, “can you tell me what we are to 
do? It don’t seem right for Sir Anthony to sleep so 
long. The doctor’s here, sir; would you ask him to go 
in and look at master?” 

“ I should think it’s all right, James,” said Philip. 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 337 

“ Sir Anthony has very likely taken his sleeping-draught, 
and if so he ought not to be disturbed. ” 

“ Dr. Barclay might just take a look at him, sir,” said 
James, almost pleadingly. For curious as it may seem, 
the man was attached to his master. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Philip went to the libra- 
ry, where he found Dr. Barclay, who had been the family 
physician for so many years, and to whom he expounded 
the state of the case. Dr. Barclay, now a white-headed 
old gentleman, with a benevolent red face, and gold- 
rimmed spectacles, nodded twice or thrice. 

“ Quite right, my dear TMr. Winyates, quite right. 
Somebody had better glance at Sir Anthony. His heart 
is a trifle weak, you know, and he has had a shock.” 

“ But you don’t imagine — ” 

“Not for a moment, not for a moment,” said the 
doctor, anticipating the conclusion of Philip’s speech, 
and holding up his plump white hands. “ Sir Anthony 
is no doubt sleeping as peacefully as a child. At the 
same time, it cannot be denied that he has had a shock. 
Lady Kesterton has had a shock, too. I found her in a 
state of nervous prostration which quite alarmed me. 
But the fire, you know, and the death of an old servant, 
are sufficient to account for it. I will just glance into 
Sir Anthony’s room, with your permission, my dear 
Mr. Philip, and if I find, as I anticipate, that he is sleep- 
ing peacefully, I promise you that I will not disturb 
him.” 

Philip led the way accordingly to Sir Anthony’s room. 
Dr. Barclay had already seen Henry and prescribed for 
him, so he passed the lad with only a friendly nod as he 
went through the dressing-room. Philip opened the 
door, and the doctor glided in, with professional silence 
22 


338 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


of foot, and a professional smile upon liis rubicund face. 
He halted about a yard from the door and looked at the 
bed. Philip, in the background, looked too. 

The lamp and fire had gone out, and the air struck 
chill as a vault. A little light came through the window- 
blinds ; the shutters had not been closed, nor the curtains 
drawn. There was no sound from the bed, no move- 
ment of the bedclothes. Everything was still as death. 
The doctor took a step further into the room and paused 
again. Then he went straight up to the bed. 

“Shut the door,” he said to Philip, more abruptly 
than was his wont. Then he himself fled to the window 
and drew up the blind. The morning light fell blankly 
on the rigid form, the ghastly yellow face with sunken 
jaw, the bloodless claw-like hands, upon which the doc- 
tor’s eye had rested. Philip uttered a sharp exclamation 
of horror and dismay. 

“ Good heavens! he is not— not — dead!” 

The doctor made no immediate answer. With a face 
blanched to a hue very unlike its usual healthy color, 
he ,was feeling for the pulses that were still, for the heart 
that had ceased to beat. “ I fear that it is so,” he said 
at last. 

“ Can we not try restoratives? Let me summon help — ” 

“ Summon what help you will, but you can never call 
him back to life,” said the doctor solemnly. He laid 
the stiff hand back upon the bed. “ The body is quite 
cold, ” he said. “ Sir Anthony has been dead for 
hours. ” 

“ Do you think that it was his heart, then? What a 
terrible shock for Lady Kesterton,” said Philip. “ My 
poor cousin!” 

He drew near and waited for the doctor’s reply, look- 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 


339 


ing- down meanwhile on the cold, dead face of the man 
whom, as he knew, few would mourn so sincerely as 
himself. “ Poor Anthony!” he murmured. 

The doctor took up the empty cup and smelt it, then 
tasted the dregs that remained. “Chloral, certainly,” 
he said. “ He has taken an overdose. I used to warn 
him that he would do it, if he were not very careful. A 
very small overdose would affect him. But he would 
not be warned. There will have to be an inquest, of 
course. ” 

“ And Lady Kesterton — ” 

“ She must be told at once. Winyates, you are like 
a son of the house. You — ” 

“No, no, I could not tell her,” said Philip, turning 
away with his hand to his eyes. “ You must go to her 
yourself, doctor ; you will be able to deal with her bet- 
ter than I. She has no love for me.” 

Dr. Barclay undertook the task. Some orders were 
given to the housekeeper and the valet, who were sum- 
moned at once ; and then Philip went to inform the 
guests and the household of the tragic event which had 
occurred, and the doctor sought an entrance to Lady 
Kesterton ’s room. 

What passed there, no one but the doctor himself ever 
exactly knew. He came out again in half an hour with 
a very odd expression upon his face — an expression of 
mingled amaze and perplexity. But to any inquiries 
he answered sedately that of course Lady Kesterton was 
very much upset — very much distressed ; she had almost 
fainted when she heard the bad news, and was inclined 
to be hysterical. But he did not add that the widow 
of Sir Anthony had uttered some words so “ wild and 
whirling,” so utterly enigmatical and compromising, 


34 ^ 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


that Dr. Barclay preferred, for the honor of the family, 
not to make them known. 

She had spoken as if she were already aware of her 
husband’s death — as if she had expected it; also as if it 
were a joy and a relief to her. In fact, for a minute or 
two she had completely lost possession of herself, and 
had displayed feelings which made poor Dr. Barclay’s 
scanty white hairs stand erect upon his head. He was 
quite too conventional and respectable and stupid to 
imagine for one minute that she had had anything to do 
with Sir Anthony’s death. Such a wild notion never 
crossed his mind for a moment. What, Lady Kesterton ! 
a woman of unblemished reputation, who went to church 
on Sundays, dispensed alms to the poor, and gave the 
biggest dinner-parties in the neighborhood? Such a 
thing was inconceivable to Dr. Barclay’s well-regulated . 
mind. No, Sir Anthony had taken an overdose, and if 
he had previously had some little dispute with his wife 
which led her to cry out hysterically that she was glad 
of his death, why, it was not within Dr. Barclay’s prov- 
ince to put foolish ideas into people’s heads, and make 
them think that Lady Kesterton was a murderess. Dr. 
Barclay knew plenty of hysterical women ; but he did 
not know any murderesses. 

The news ran like wildfire through the house. Sir 
Anthony dead! Dead on the morning after the ball, 
after that half statement which he would never finish 
making now. Even in the first shock of the announce- 
ment there were murmurs of regret on this score. 

“ What a pity that he should have died just now ! What 
a pity that he should not have said all that he meant to 
say last night!” 

“ But, of course, he has left instructions. No doubt 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 


341 


his lawyer knows all about everything, ” said the guests 
to each other. “ How terrible it would be if he were 
dead without revealing the secret to any one ; and even 
Miss Paston never knew what he was going to say!" 
But this suggestion, which came from a comparative 
stranger in the house, was received with utter scorn. 

Henry was, of course, almost the first person to whom 
Philip gently broke the news. He was hardly prepared 
for the storm of grief with which it was received. The 
boy seemed quite stunned at first. Nothing had ever 
roused him to such intensity of sorrow. 

“My dear boy — my dear Harry — don’t grieve so!” 
said Philip, startled by the passionate burst of sobs 
which succeeded to the lad’s first despair. “ Why should 
you? Sir Anthony was kind indeed to you, but the loss 
is not so great — ’’ 

“ It could not be greater,’’ said the boy, the tears fall- 
ing fast over his pale cheeks. “ Oh, I can’t tell you yet, 
Phil — I’ll tell you by and by. Lady Kesterton knows. 
I suppose you’ll hear — don’t ask me.’’ 

And Philip retired, disturbed but wondering ; for he 
had never suspected that there was any depth of affec- 
tion for Sir Anthony in Henry’s heart. But iA this he 
did Henry wrong. The lad had worshipped his unknown 
father for years, in the blind and reverential way that 
children will sometimes worship a cold and careless 
parent. Every little favor of kindness from Sir Anthony 
had been like sunshine to him, and yet he had kept his 
affections pretty resolutely to himself, fearing lest it 
might be unacceptable to its object and ridiculous to 
those who did not understand it. Throughout that long 
morning, when Sir Anthony in the next room was quietly 
sleeping his life away, it had been like a dream of ecstasy 


342 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


to Henry that he might now claim the man whom he 
had loved so long as his own father — might let the world 
know how tenderly he regarded him, might lavish upon 
him the affection that hitherto had found so little outlet 
except in the presence of his sister. The dream was 
rudely dispelled, and Henry saw himself once more 
fatherless and alone. But he could not tell Philip yet. 
Of course, before the day was out, every one would know 
the truth. 

He was removed in his bed to the sitting-room which 
adjoined Philip’s bedroom. Here he lay and sorrowed 
quietly enough after that first outburst of grief, and here 
he gently said good-by to Betty, who came to tell him 
that she was going home with her brother. 

“ Beatrice is going to stay with Lady Kesterfon,” she 
said. “ So perhaps I shall see you again — soon.” 

“ I hope so, ” said Henry. He looked at her wistfully, 
almost wishing that he had courage to tell her the truth. 
But he did not like just then to speak of himself. 

After Lady Betty came Elfrida, pale and weary-look- 
ing, having wept herself almost ill for poor Terry’s 
death, and attributing Henry’s look of depression to the 
same source. 

“ Don’t grieve, Hal dear,” she said; “ I’ll try to be to 
you as much as dear old Terry .was. We shall never 
have a friend like her, but at least we can be friends to 
one another. ” 

“ There is another friend gone too, Elfie. ” 

“ Sir Anthony ! Sir Anthony ! How can you compare 
him to Terry as a friend?” 

“ More than a friend, my dear. Oh, Elfie, I must tell 
you all. What do you think he was going to say yester- 
day night? He was going to tell everybody if the fire 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 


343 


had not broken out and prevented him. But he told 
me.’' 

“ Did he, Harry?” The g’irl lifted her head eagerly. 
A new light came into her eyes. It had occurred to her 
as it had occurred to other people, that perhaps, now, she 
might “never know.” 

“We were his children, Elfrida — that was the secret 
of it all.” 

“ His children!” 

Elfrida gasped with indignation and wonderment. 
“ His children, Harry? And our mother — our mother — ” 

“ She was his wife.” 

“ He told you so?” 

“ He told me so. And he meant everybody to know 
to-day, Elfie. Do not look like that. He had learned 
to love us — before he died.” 

The girl broke into a wild, scornful laugh. “ To love 
us — a fine way of loving us — after twenty years of neg- 
lect! Love us? and let us think that we were being 
brought up on charity, that we were poor and friendless 
and worthy to be despised! * Oh, Harry, don’t talk to 
me about his love!” 

“ Elfie, you are hard — unjust.” 

“ Then what was he to us? I always felt that he had 
injured us. I always believed that there was some 
wrong that he ought to have repaired. Henry, have you 
no feeling for your own mother? Think what she must 
have endured — and yet she loved him and forgave him 
to the end!” 

“ And we also, Elfie, must love and forgive him — to 
the end. ” 

“It was his fault,” cried Elfie bitterly, “that you lie 
here on this couch, Henry, instead of taking your place 


344 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


in the world of men. You have suffered pain and neg- 
lect for years ; and I have suffered pain and humiliation, 
such as I could never tell you of. Do you think it was 
no hardship to me to go about this house like an inferior 
and a dependent? Why, if any one spoke a kind word 
to me. Lady Kesterton raged with anger, ’and he stood 
by and saw it all, and never helped me nor protected 
me in the very least! Oh, Henry, don’t ask me to love 
him — it’s as much as I shall ever be able to do if I for- 
give him — and more for your sake than for my own!” 

And then she fell into bitter weeping, and would not 
be comforted for a time. But after a while the full 
significance of what Henry had told her began to dawn 
upon her mind. She thought, with a full heart and 
quivering pulse, that now, at least, she would not be 
deemed the inferior of the man she loved. She would 
bring him an unstained name, and a fortune, as well as 
a true, pure love. And she felt an unspeakable relief 
and comfort in the thought. 

It was easier after this to tell the story to Philip next 
morning. But Philip was more alarmed than pleased 
to hear it. He had a vague impression that the story 
would be difficult to prove, and that possibly Henry had 
made some mistake. Certainly Lady Kesterton, who, 
apparently, had heard the story, was not acting as though 
she took the view of it that Henry did. She had already 
allowed her little son to be called Sir Gerald, and she 
had not spoken of Henry at all in the one interview that 
she had already had with Philip. 

Under these circumstances, Philip thought that it 
behooved him to seek her out again, and to hint to her, 
with care and circuml^^cution, the gist of the story that 


THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 34^ 

he had heard from Henry. To his surprise, she received 
the communication with perfect calm. 

“ Poor boy!” she said. “ He has held apart from the 
world so long- that he does not understand social differ- 
ences. Yes, poor Sir Anthony did confess the miserable 
story — to him as well as to me. Henry and Elfrida 
v/ere indeed his children ; but he mistakes the position 
that he will hold. You understand me, do you not, 
Philip? His children certainly, but not his legitimate 
children ; and that makes all the difference, don’t you 
know?” 

All the difference, indeed! 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


TWO POINTS OF VIEW. 

It was a bold stroke. Lady Kesterton played for 
herself and her children, and she played well. Philip 
looked first incredulous and then dismayed. “ Is it 
possible?” he said, and then paused as if he did not 
know what else to say. 

Lady Kesterton saw his hesitation with a thrill of 
triumph. She had hardly counted upon being so im- 
plicitly believed. But Phil, trying to be scrupulously 
just, was weighing in his mind the possibility that 
Henry had been too much excited and overworn by the 
events of the past day to be able to judge correctly of 
what Sir Anthony had said. 

“At any rate,” said Lady Kesterton, “if — if I should 
be mistaken — ^and I do not think it likely — the matter 
is sure to be cleared up shortly. The Pastons, as we 
have always called them — oh, yes, they are poor Sir 
Anthony’s children, and I think we have behaved very 
well to them, considering that they have no legal claim 
— they are surely not going to maintain that Sir An- 
thony married their mother?” 

“ If that were so,” said Philip slowly, “ Henry would 
be — master here.” 

“In Gerald’s place! As if that were likely!” cried 
Lady Kesterton passionately. Then, controlling her- 
self, she went on more calmly, “ There will, no doubt, 

346 


TWO POINTS OF VIEW. 


347 


be letters or memoranda of some sort among Sir An- 
thony’s papers. If it were so — an absurd idea, I think — 
I suppose there would be certificates. You had better 
mention the matter to Mr. Watson when he comes.” 

“1 don’t think Sir Anthony trusted this young man 
much,” said Philip, in rather a doubtful tone. “Even 
the father had lost his confidence during the last 
few years. He may have deposited his papers some- 
where else." 

“He kept most of his important papers in the bureau 
and desk in his library, I think. You had better speak 
to Mr. Watson at once.” 

She did not mention that she herself, in the small 
hours of the preceding night, had already ransacked the 
desk and bureau of which she spoke, and had found 
nothing. She knew in her own mind that it was ex- 
tremely unlikely that papers would not be found some- 
where or other ; but in the mean time she was not going 
to forestall matters by an admission of what her hus- 
band had said. She could always pretend that she had 
not understood him to mean so much. Nobody could 
contradict her but Henry; and who. Lady Kesterton 
a.sked herself contemptuously, who would believe a half- 
witted cripple against her? He would scarcely dare, 
perhaps, even to uphold his own opinion in opposition 
to hers; which showed how little she understood of 
Henry’s character. 

The guests had left the Park by this time. Lady 
Beltane had stayed on — professedly out of love for her 
cousin Eva; in reality, because she did not want to 
lose sight of Elfrida, nor be in ignorance of what Philip 
was doing. She wondered what was the matter with 
Eva in these days. Surely she was not sorrowing for 


348 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


Sir Anthony? She was very white, very cold, very 
distraite. Once when Beatrice gave her a word of veiled 
congratulation on her son’s position, she burst out cry- 
ing hysterically, and could not be quieted for some time. 
But Lady Beltane thought that she had got a clue to 
her cousin’s agitation when at last she was informed of 
“ the extraordinary, the impudent claim which that boy 
Henry Paston had put forward” — for so the matter was 
worded to her — and her indignation was quite equal to 
that professed by Lady Kesterton. 

It was after Philip’s interview with Lady Kesterton, 
after another with “ young Watson,” who had succeeded 
to his father’s business, and after a prolonged and fruit- 
less search for papers, that he sought out Elfrida. She 
had spent the greater part of these two days with 
Henry. Perhaps it was fortunate that Henry was so 
much exhausted by the past events that he was ordered 
complete quiet; otherwise he would have discovered 
that his position had changed for the worse and not for 
the better at Kesterton Park. At present, both brother 
and sister were content to believe that their affairs 
were safe in Philip’s hands, and that it was more re- 
spectful to Sir Anthony’s memory to make no change 
apparent until after the funeral. The brother and sis- 
ter had thereupon sat quietly together, talking little. 
Elfrida read aloud to Henry from time to time, and 
occasionally Henry slept. Neither were elated by this 
gleam of future prosperity. Perhaps they were both a 
little afraid of it, after bearing the yoke of adversity 
for so many years of their youth. 

Elfrida was glad to find that she was not expected to 
take charge of the children, though she put down her 
freedom to motives quite different from those that really 


TWO POINTS OF VIEW. 


349 


actuated Lady Kesterton. Elfie thought it was because 
her position in the house was changed for the better. 

Lady Kesterton kept her away because she regarded 
her as her children’s enemy. 

“ Mr. Winyates would be glad to speak to you, miss,’’ 
said the servant, entering the little • sitting-room where 
Elfrida spent her time with Henry. “ He is in the 
librar}^, and he says if you would be so kind as to step 
that way — ” 

“Very well, James, I will go,” said Elfrida. It was 
Sir 'Anthony’s man who had come for her; he had 
always been scrupulously respectful in manner, and she 
sometimes suspected that he had been more in her 
father’s confidence than she knew. She left him with 
Henry, who was sleeping, and went softly down the 
stairs into the library. 

She had no conception of what Philip wanted, but 
she supposed that it had some reference to business 
matters, and she was not at all surprised to see that he 
looked exceedingly grave and pale. 

“ Thank you for coming,” he said, giving her his hand 
and leading her to a chair with even a shade more than 
usual of the courtesy than she was accustomed to from 
him. “ I wanted to speak to you very particularly this 
morning.” 

“ Yes?” she said, gently. “ I thought that very likely 
there was something about Henry — ” 

“ Yes, it is about Henry. Elfie, I think you know me 
well enough to be sure that I would not say or do any- 
thing to hurt you if I could help it?” 

She paled a little, and looked him full in the face. 
“ There is something wrong, then?” she asked, “ Some- 
thing about — the relationship?” 


35 ° 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ Just so, dear. We have searched everywhere — Wat- 
son and I — for papers, and we can’t find a clue. We 
cannot find a single trace of a record of — of Sir An- 
thony’s first marriage. Watson knows nothing of it. 
There is, of course, no entry of it in the church register 
of this parish. There does not seem to he a single proof 
that we can get.” 

“ But Sir Anthony told Henry?” 

“ Yes, dear, but — Lady Kesterton declares that he was 
mistaken. ” 

“ Oh, Philip, that is impossible! Henry has told me 
so much that was said. You don’t mean to say” — with 
gathering anger — “that you don’t believe Henry’s 
word?” 

“ No, Elfie, I don’t say. that in the very least. I only 
mean that in the hurry and confusion of the moment 
Henry might have mistaken Sir Anthony’s meaning a 
little. That you and Henry were his children, nobody 
will deny ; Lady Kesterton acknowledges that frankly ; 
but what she says is that Sir Anthony never mentioned 
a marriage!” 

Elfrida’s face turned crimson, and then very white. 

“ Henry did not understand it in that way. Sir An- 
thony spoke to him — oh, had )"ou not better talk to 
Henry about it, Philip? I don’t feel as if” — her eyes 
filled with tears — “as if it were a subject that I could 
discuss.” 

“ My dear Elfie,” said Philip, more gently than ever 
— for was he not full of tenderness at having to destroy 
what he was beginning to think a mere castle in the 
air, built out of Henry’s over-heated imaginings? — “ I 
would spare you if I could — you know that. But you 


TWO POINTS OF VIEW. 


351 


are older than Henry ; you have influence Avith him ; 
and I want you to speak seriously to him — ” 

“ To tell him that he has lied? Or that he has been 
a fool?” Elfrida could speak very strongly and much 
to the point when she chose. 

“ No,” said Philip, seeing that it was no use in beat- 
ing about the bush ; “ but to make him understand that 
his report of what Sir Anthony said is of no use, 
legally, unless other proof is found. My dear, we can’t 
expect people to give up a fortune and a title simply on 
the report of a conversation, and a report which the 
third person present at it does not corroborate. You 
are quite reasonable enough to acknowledge that, Elfie. ” 

Elfrida reflected for a minute or two, with a little 
pucker in her brows. 

“ I suppose you are right. I beg your pardon if I 
spoke hastily. But surely there will be plenty of 
proofs? Sir Anthony must have kept the’ certificate — ” 

“ I am extremely sorry to say, Elfie, that at present 
there is absolutely nothing to be found. Mr. Watson 
knows nothing: there seems to be not a scrap of evi- 
dence. We have been doing all we could during -the 
past four-and-twenty hours to obtain information, and 
we have obtained none. ” 

“ But there are plenty of things that you have not 
done yet!” exclaimed Elfrida, rapidly. “We could 
advertise for the record of the marriage — or for the 
clergyman — and we might ask my mother’s family 
if they knew anything about it. They have gone back 
to Norfolk, I believe; but they might be asked if they 
knew — ” 

“ We shall do everything of that kind that there is to 


352 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

be done,” said Philip gravely. “ Yon trust to our honor 
and good faith, do you not?” 

“Oh, to yours, to yours — yes. But you are not a 
Kesterton,” said Elfrida. 

“ Remember that, if this story of Sir Anthony’s is 
true, you are a Kesterton yourself,” he said kindly. 
“You must not speak against your own race.” 

She looked up, softened by the words and by the 
tone. “What is to be done, then, Philip?” she asked. 

“ It is a difficult thing to say what I mean, dear. The 
fact is — I suppose you know that the inquest takes 
place this afternoon?” 

“Oh, I had forgotten!” 

“ And that as Henry and Lady Kesterton were the 
last persons who saw Sir Anthony alive, their deposi- 
tions will have to be taken. ” 

“ But how can Henry go to the inquest?” said Elfrida, 
opening her eyes wide. 

“He need not go; the coroner and the jury will go 
to him. The inquest will be held in the large hall, 
and they will be taken up to his room when the time 
comes. It will be a merely formal interview — unless 
he makes it otherwise.” 

“ What do you mean, Philip?” . 

“ I mean, dear Elfie, that unless it is absolutely nec- 
essary for Henry to speak, we hope that he will not 
mention the subject of conversation between him and 
Sir Anthony, nor the quarrel that seems to have taken 
place. Of course, he must answer any questions that 
are put to him, but he — need not volunteer information 
that might create a scandal.” 

Philip spoke carefully. Lady Kesterton and Mr. 
Watson had both urged this view of the case upon him. 


TWO POINTS OF VIEW. 


353 


and, conscious of the rectitude of his wishes and inten- 
tions, it had seemed to him a very reasonable one. But 
Elfrida’s sensitive color flashed into her face at once. 

“ That seems to me a little like an attempt to sup- 
press the truth,” she said. 

“ You are unjust, Elfrida. You know that nothing 
on earth would induce us to suppress it. ” 

“You, perhaps — not Lady Kesterton. ” 

“ I think you have scarcely any right to say so.” 

“Don’t I know her well enough?” said Elfrida, with 
keen irony in her tones. “ Have I not seen and studied 
her, and experienced her treatment of me, for nearly 
ten years? You know as well as I do, Philip,” relin- 
quishing the ironical tone for one of deep indignation, 
“ that Lady Kesterton has always hated me and hated 
Henry. Do you suppose that she sees with any sort of 
pleasure the prospect of our being put over her chil- 
dren’s heads? I am perfectly certain that if Lady Kes- 
terton could kill us both with a word, she would not 
hesitate for one moment to do it. And if she could sup- 
press this fact she would not hesitate to do it either. 
Surely you don’t need me to tell you that Lady Kester- 
ton is utterly unscrupulous?” 

They were on the verge of a quarrel. Philip knew 
that Elfrida had read Eva Kesterton ’s character pretty 
correctly ; but he was a man, and always therefore in- 
clined to take a woman’s side — even against another 
woman. He thought Elfrida harsh in her judgment, 
and only by a great effort restrained himself from say- 
ing so. 

“ Lady Kesterton is in a difficult position,” he said at 
last; “but I do not think that she is likely to wish for 
any suppression of the truth. She only suggests that it 

23 


554 Anthony’s becmt. 

will be unpleasant and harmful to us all if family affairs 
are discussed at the inquest. Don’t you think so your- 
self?” 

Put in this light, Elfrida was obliged to confess that 
what he said was true. And having relieved her mind 
by expressing her opinion of Lady Kesterton, she be- 
came more amenable to Philip’s persuasion, and went 
back to Henry’s room, having promised that she would 
represent matters to him as she was requested to do. 

But she found more difficulties than she had antici- 
pated. The first stumbling-block was Henry’s apparent 
incapacity to understand what was wanted of him. 

Of course,” he said, “ I shall only answer their ques- 
tions ; but if they ask why he talked to me for so long 
a time, and whether there was any quarrel, or any- 
thing of that sort, what can I say but the truth?” 

“Yes, dear, I know. But I suppose Lady Kesterton 
does not want the truth to leak out in that way.” 

“ I don’t understand. Does not all the world know 
the truth by this time?” 

“I don’t think any one doeSj Harry, dear.” 

The lad’s face flushed. 

“ I don’t care for myself, but I don’t want any slur to 
rest on you^ Elfie. People have gossipped about us long 
enough. Everything ought to be made clear and plain 
at once.” 

“ But, Harry, Philip says it is no good saying any- 
thing until we get proofs. The word of one person 
alone — your word even — it seems is not enough. ” 

“ There is Lady Kesterton ’s word as well as mine. 
She knows/’ 

Elfrida was silent for a moment. 

“ Hal, dear,” she said at last, “ do you think it possi- 


TWO POINTS OF VIEW. 


355 


ble that you misuaderstood Sir Anthony a little bit? 
For it is very evident that you and Lady Kesterton have 
not taken what he said in the same way.’’ 

Henry's face flushed with surprise. 

“ How could she take it any other way?” he asked 
seriously. 

“ Oh, I don’t know — I don’t know. But she says it 
was — different.” 

“ You must tell me exactly what she does say, Elfie.” 

“Oh, I can’t, Hal! I haven’t seen her, and I don’t 
quite know. But she seems to think that Sir Anthony 
meant” — her voice dropped low — “that we were his 
children, but that mother — mother was not his wife.” 

“ Does Lady Kesterton say that?” 

The shocked look, the startled eye and quivering lip, 
made Elfrida put her hand caressingly to his face. 
“ Dear Harry!” she said. “ Perhaps you did misunder- 
stand.” 

“ Oh, no, ” said her brother quietly, but with a curi- 
ous new-born dignity, “no, I did not misunderstand. 
And I do not think that Lady Kesterton misunderstood. 
Elfie, I ought to see Lady Kesterton about this. ” 

“ Hal, don’t, dear! She will only insult us.” 

“I don’t think she can insult nre to rny face,” said 
Henry calmly, “ although she may try to deceive others 
behind my back. Elfrida, do you think I do not know 
what my father said to me?” 

“Oh, Henry,” said his sister, with a little gasping 
cry, “ if you could only prove it ! If he had only told 
you where the marriage took place, or something of 
that kind!” 

But Henry shook his head. “If Lady Kesterton 
would come to me,” he said. “ I think I should under- 


356 SIR Anthony’s secret, 

stand things better, Elfie, get me my writing things. 
I will send her a note. ” 

Elfie did his bidding obediently. Now that he was 
without his invalid couch and other articles of comfort 
that had been destroyed by the fire, he was much more 
helpless than he used to be; but with Elfrida’s help he 
at last succeeded in writing a note, which he worded 
as follows : 

Dear Lady Kesterton; I have not quite under- 
stood what your wishes are respecting the manner in 
which I should give my evidence, if it is required, this 
afternoon. As you and I alone know what passed be- 
tween us and Sir Anthony shortly after the fire, might 
I ask you as a great favor to speak with me for a few 
minutes? I am not able to come to you -or I would not 
trouble you to come here.— Yours very truly, 

Henry Kesterton, 

. It was the first time that he had signed his name, 

Elfrida, with many misgivings, confided the missive 
to the hands of Lady Kesterton ’s maid; and in about 
a quarter of an hour received the following reply for 
her brother : 

Lady Kesterton absolutely declines to hold any 
communication with Henry Paston, unless he with- 
draws the extraordinary statement respecting his birth 
and pretensions which he has made to Mr. Winyates — 
a statement which, at present, she has not the slightest 
reason to believe. 

Henry read the note twice with a look of mingled 
scorn, incredulity, and pity, which puzzled his sister. 
But he did not speak for some minutes. He put the 
paper down on the bed beside him, closed his eyes, and 
sighed. 


TWO POINTS OF VIEW. 


357 


“What shall you do, Harry?” asked his sister. 

He opened his eyes and let them rest on her with a 
rather mournful smile. “ I shall stand up for my rights 
and yours,” he said; ^‘but I shall not, I hope, fight in 
an unfair way. I can promise no more, Elfie.” 

And she did not press him for more. But she was 
struck by the manliness and decision of his tone. It 
seemed as though the approaching contest had made 
him at once her elder and her superior. She had noth- 
ing to hut to wait and to ohQj. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE GAUNTLET IS THROWN DOWN, 

The inquest was likely to be, as Philip had said, a 
merely formal matter. Everybody knew perfectly well 
beforehand what the verdict would be---“ Accidental 
death from an overdose of chloral. ” That was what the 
doctor had already said, and what the jury also was sure 
to say. The twelve good men and true gathered at 
three o’clock in the great hall of Kesterton Park, and 
with them came the coroner, a Mn Thorne, who was 
a well-known M.F. H., and a rather popular man in the 
county, but not a little of a gossip, and always; glad of 
an opportunity for asking awkward questions. He was 
extremely useful sometimes, but at others he was voted 
a nuisance even by his best friends. 

Matters proceeded in the usual course. James, Sir 
Anthony’s man, was interrogated. Then Lady Kes- 
terton appeared, and she was allowed to tell her story 
in her own way. She narrated how she had lopked 
into her husband’s dressing-roorn in order to persuade 
him to go to bed (that was the way she put it), ho\y she 
found him talking to the invalid boy, Henry Paston, 
and after rerqaining for a few minutes had gone back 
to her own room, Was that the last tirpe you saw Sir 
Anthony?’’ she was asked. 

“ It was the last time I spoke to him.. I crept back 
in about half an hour’s time to see whether he was in 
bed. I then saw him through the door. He nodded tp 

358 


THE GAUNTLET IS THROWN DOWN. 


359 

me, as much as to say that he would come directly, and 
I went back to my own room again. ” 

Lady Kesterton was complimented on her wifely de- 
votion and dismissed. But she remained in the hall to 
iiear the rest of the proceedings. 

“ Mr. Henry Paston” being then named, the gentle- 
men were desired to walk up to his room, as he was 
not able to leave his bed. Two or three members of 
the family and householdj as the newspaper reporter 
phrased it, followed them to Mr. Paston ’s room, namely. 
Lady Kesterton^ Philip Winyates and Lady Beltane. 
Elfrida was already with her brother. 

None of the gentlemen of the jury, nor the eoroner, 
had ever seen Henry before, though all of them had 
heard of him. More than one started at the sight of 
the ethereal-looking face, his golden hair, and grave, 
earnestj young blue eyeS; There was a slight flush on 
his thin cheeks, but this increased bis beauty ; and a 
general feeling of sympathy was experienced for the 
boy, whose sad story was partly known or guessed at 
by everybody present. 

“Your name is Henry Paston, I think?” It was the 
usual opening, but Elfrida’s eyes dilated with terror 
when she heard it, and Lady Kesterton turned deathly 
pale. Henry answered quietly^ — 

“ That is the name by whieh I am generally called.” 

“ Do you mean to imply that it is not your real name?” 
said Mr. Thome. 

“ I do. But I do not suppose we need go into that at 
present. ’* 

“You will oblige me with your real name, young 
sir,” said Mr. Thorne, stiffly, being much nettled by 
the toueh of hauteur in Henry’s tone and bearing. 


3^0 Sir ANtHONY^S SECMEt. 

“ My name, since you wish for it, is Henry Kestertoll, 
and I am Sir Anthony Kesterton’s eldest son,” said 
Henry, clearly and steadily. 

Lady Kesterton made a movement as if to speak, but 
Philip whispered something to her which restrained her. 
There was a “ sensation ” in the room^ and Mr. Thorne 
looked as though he were about to have an apoplectic 
fit. But before he could speak, Philip intervened. 

“ Lady Kesterton desires me to say, sir, that the mat- 
ter of this young gentleman’s name concerns the family 
only, and has nothing to do with the matter of her hus- 
band’s death.” 

“ Indeed, but I think it has,” said Mr. Thorne, pom- 
pously. “ It was perhaps a matter of discussion at the 
moment, and if the discussion were accompanied by 
agitation of mind, it may have been the ultimate cause 
of Sir Anthony’s unfortunate decease. Was your — er — 
relationship to Sir Anthony the topic of conversation, 
may I ask?” 

“It was.” 

“ Perhaps you had better relate what passed. ” 

“ I could hardly repeat the whole conversation. He 
told me for the first time of the relationship, but with- 
out any sign of agitation. Then Lady Kesterton came 
in, and remained for a short time with us. My father,” 
Henry said the words with a proud assurance which 
startled his hearers, “ my father kindly attended to my 
wants, as I was feeling very weak and faint, and when 
he saw that I was sleepy, but not before — he went to 
his own room. I never saw him again.” 

Mr. Thorne ought to have been satisfied with this 
statement, but curiosity got the better of him again, 
and he asked: 


THE GAUNTLET IS TiIrOWN DOWN. 361 

“Was Lady Kesterton present when Sir Anthony 
spoke of this relationship?” 

Henry glanced for a moment at her ladyship, whose 
impassive face revealed no trace of feeling, and then 
answered quietly: 

‘ “She was.” 

And there Henry’s examination ended. 

“ I should like to make one additional remark,” said 
Lady Kesterton. Her face was ashen white, and this 
pallor, so marked in contrast to her mourning gown, 
procured her a hearing at once. 

“ I desired to avoid all reference to family matters. 
Since they have been introduced, however, I have no 
^resource open, for my own son’s sake, but to mention a 
fact that the last speaker has ignored. He is Sir An- 
thony Kesterton ’s eldest son, without a doubt ; but, as 
far as I know, he has no right to the name of Kesterton. ’’ 
And with this significant sentence Lady Kesterton 
bowed slightly and left the room. 

The stupefaction into which the twelve honest genr 
tlemen of Southshire had been thrown by this little 
scene was not dissipated -when Henry, with scarlet face 
and sparkling eyes, cried out : 

“ I have told you the truth, and she knows it. My 
father told her so.” 

Then the color vanished from his face, and his head 
fell back among the pillows. He had fainted away, 
and before he recovered from his swoon the jury flitted 
from the room, and the inquest was over. He did 
not hear until later that Lady Kesterton had also 
fainted when she gained her own apartments, and 
that in her case the fainting-fit had been followed by 
hysterics, 


362 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ Do you think you were quite wise, Henry?” Philip 
asked him afterward, with affectionate regret. 

Henry answered with a wistful smile. “ If I am Sir 
Anthony’s eldest lawful son, and his heir,” he said, 
“ there is no use in concealing the fact. ” 

“ No, dear lad — if — ” 

“ You don’t believe me. But some day you will see 
that I speak truth.” 

“ I do believe that you speak the truth, as far as you 
know it,” said Philip, sore perplexed between his love 
for Henry and his perception of possibilities ; “ but I 
cannot help thinking that there may have been some 
error, and that it would have been better to be silent 
until you were a little more sure.” 

“ If you had heard Sir Anthony speak, you would 
have been quite sure,” said Henry. Then his eyes fill- 
ing with tears : “ It is for Elfrida’s sake. If I am 
under the ban, she shares my disgrace. I want to set- 
tle the matter, so that she may have no burden of doubt 
to bear. It would be worse for her than for me.” 

“ I don’t know that,” said Philip gravely. “ She may 
have the protection of a husband’s name by and by.” 

“ Yes, but it is a story that people don’t forget. And 
she may live for years and years, and her children will 
come after her. As for me, I shall die and be forgot- 
ten. Gerald will have the title before long in any 
case.” 

“ Nonsense ! you may live to be a hundred. But what 
is to be done next?” 

Henry looked at him speechlessly. “ My dear boy,” 
Philip went on, “ you have thrown down the gauntlet. 
It will be war to the knife now between Lady Kester- 
ton and you. She will fight to the last for the rights of 


THE GAUNTLET IS THROWN DOWN. 363 

her little son and daughter, and possession is nine parts 
of the law. She is only waiting until the funeral is 
over and Sir Anthony’s will has been read to turn you 
out.” 

“Oh, let us go at once!” cried Elfrida suddenly. 
“ Why should we stay where we are not wanted?” 

“We must stay,” said Henry resolutely, “until the 
will has been read. That may very likely clear up the 
whole matter. ” 

“ And if it does not?” 

But Henry shook his head and would not entertain 
that view of the position. 

And so the days before the funeral dragged by. 
Lady Kesterton remained in her own apartments. 
Elfrida was almost afraid to move from Harry’s side. 
She received a letter from Betty, but Betty wrote in 
utter ignorance of what was beginning to be known as 
“The Kesterton Scandal,” and, therefore, it contained 
little that was really cornforting to Elfrida. And Lord 
Beaulieu did not write. He had sent her a note on the 
day of Sir Anthony’s death ; but it was plain that as 
soon as the gossip reached his ears his mouth was sealed. 
And the story was ringing through the country. “ The 
extraordinary claim,” as some people called it, of Henry 
Paston to Sir Anthony’s title, was as unexpected, even 
by friends of the family, as it was novel. Everybody 
was asking whether it would go into the law courts, and 
every one was curious to know whether “ the Pastons” 
had “anything of a case.” It was the general opinion 
that they had not, and that the boy suffered from hallu- 
cinations, for which “ some people” would have shut him 
up in a mad-house. 

The brother and sister lived in a state of feverish an- 


364 siR aMthoJ^y’s secret. 

ticipation. Philip had set afoot inquiries of various 
kinds, but as yet nothing had come of them. When the 
day of the funeral arrived they were no nearer the truth 
than they had been on the day of Sir Anthony’s death. 
The funeral was an imposing one. Lady Kesterton 
had bidden all the world to her husband’s obsequies. 
And then a very unexpected piece of news was com- 
municated to the family and to the world at latge. Sir 
Anthony had left no will at all. So that his secret was 
not to be divulged in this way. One or two persons 
noticed that Lady Kesterton ’s eyes glittered brightly 
when this fact was made known, as if it were a matter 
of rejoicing; but that, they concluded, could not possi- 
bly be the case, for the widow lost, probably by the 
absence of a will. 

It was on the following morning that Lady Kesterton, 
sitting alone in the library, summoned Philip Winyates 
to her side. He had been expecting some such sum- 
mons, and was prepared for it. ^ 

“Sit down,” she said to him abruptly. “I will not 
detain you long. ” 

“ I am quite at your service. Lady Kesterton,” he said, 
and then he seated himself in a chair opposite her own 
and waited for her to speak. 

How white and wasted she looked! how miich aged 
by the incidents of the last few days ! There was no 
trace of weeping on her face, but there was an indefina- 
ble expression of suffering which produced a painful 
impression on the observer. 

“ You heard, ” she said at last, “ that there was no will. ” 

Philip bowed. He could not trust himself to speak. 

“ There is no proof existing, apparently, of the state- 
ment made by that boy upstairs. ” 


‘THE GAUNt^ET IS THROWN DOWN. 365 

“ Excuse me, Lady l^esterton — are you quite certain 
that you understood Sir Anthony aright?” 

“ Quite certain. ” There was a peculiar sharpness in 
heT tone. “ He has no other proof to produce, I 
Sijppose. ” 

“ At present — not. ” 

“At present? Are you on their side, then? But I 
forgot — you have a penchafit for Elfrida?” 

“ More than a penchant^ Lady Kesterton ; I have real 
and true love for her. ” 

“ It comes to the same thing in the long run — you are 
on her side!” 

“ I could not say that, exactly. I want justice to be 
done. ” 

“ As if justice were not on the side of my children !” 
cried Lady Kesterton, with a sudden flash of passionate 
feeling. “ Why should these Pastons come now to take 
away their inheritance? Is it likely that if they had 
been Sir Anthony’s legitimate children he would have 
allowed them to remain in the background for so long? 
It is a plot, got up to rob Janey and Gerald. Sir An- 
thony always hated them, and he would have been glad 
to see any one in their places — even the children of — 
'of — a dairy-maid.” 

“You think, then,” said Philip, all his acuteness on 
the alert, “that Sir Anthony himself devised a plot? 
Did you hear him say anything that tended that way?” 

“No, not in the least,” said Lady Kesterton, sud- 
denly stiffening and growing cold. “ I speak only of 
what I think likely. He never loved my children; 
just as,” in a lower voice, “he never loved me.” 

Philip was silent; he respected her emotion, but at 
the same time he was more than ever conscious of his 


366 


SIR ANTHONY S SECRET. 


old dislike of Lady Kesterton, his old distrust of her. 
Presently she roused herself, gave a curious little shud- 
der, a curious little glance round the room, as if seek- 
ing for some one who was not there, and said : 

“ Don’t let us talk of him. I can’t — bear it — yet. I 
want to speak to you about the claim set up by Henry 
Paston. Why does he not give it up?” 

“ He is convinced of its truth.” 

“ And he is going to try to establish it?” 

“ I believe so. Yes.” 

“ And you are upholding him. You are, as I said, on 
his side. Well, then, you will see readily enough that 
this house is not wide enough for me and for— my chil- 
dren’s enemies. Unless he gives up his claim he must 
go out of it.” 

Philip regarded her steadily. “ Although he is your 
late husband's son?” he said. 

“ That has nothing to do with me. The law does not 
recognize him — I go by the law. He is trying -to oust 
my children from their rightful position. Let him go 
elsewhere to do it.” 

“ But, Lady Kesterton, let me point out to you that 
he has nowhere to go. ” 

“ Exactly. Then why does he defy me and put him- 
self in opposition to me? If he will give up any notion 
of that sort he may stay on, and his sister too ; she can 
go on teaching the children, and I will give him house- 
room — at any rate for a time. I am quite willing to 
overlook the past if he comes to his senses.” 

“ I am to tell him this from you?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I do not think that he will accept your terms.” 

“ Then he can go out of the house — to the work-house, 


THE GAUNTLET IS THROWN DOWN. 


367 


if there is nowhere else to go. I think myself that a 
lunatic asylum would be the best place. I am sure he 
must be suffering from hallucinations. How else could 
he imagine the things that he says he remembers? — 
unless it is pure wickedness and malice.” 

“ You cannot look at Henry and suspect wickedness or 
malice.” 

“ Then it is madness, and the sooner he goes to a 
mad-house the better. You can tell him all that I say 
if you like.” 

Philip bowed coldly and rose. 

“Of course,” he said, just as he reached the door, 
“ Harry will never want a home so long as I am alive; 
but I wish the matter could have been arranged with- 
out your seeming to turn him out of doors as soon as 
his father is dead. ” 

Lady Kesterton’s eyes glittered coldly. 

“ It will be his own fault if he goes,” she said. 

Philip departed on his mission to Henry and Elfrida, 

In a quarter of an hour he was back again with a 
message. He found her sitting in exactly the same 
position as that in which he had left her, with rigid 
pale face and cold eyes staring immovably at the glow- 
ing embers of the fire. She looked so stern, so forbid- 
ding, that Philip almost hesitated to disturb her. 

“ I have come. Lady Kesterton, to tell you Henry’s 
answer. ” 

She bowed her head, but did not look up. 

‘‘He wishes very earnestly that you would see 
him.” 

“ I will not see him. ” 

“ Then, if you really will not, he wishes me to say 
that he cannot accept your proposition either for him- 


368, 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


self or his sister, and that he is quite willing to leave 
the house at any moment.” 

“ He means to fight the matter out, then?” 

“ He does.” 

“Very well, I shall put it into my lawyer’s hands,” 
said Lady Kesterton, dryly. “ And I beg that he will 
leave the house as soon as he can conveniently do so.” 

“ With regard to that,” said Philip, “ I have a word to 
say. I shall take the management of Henry’s affairs 
on my own shoulders and provide a home for him. 
But to do this I must have at least one day’s time. 
You must allow him to remain in the house until the 
day after to-morrow: he cannot be removed earlier. 
On that day he will go with me to London. ” 

“ I consent to the day’s delay,” said Lady Kesterton, 
“ but I beg that it may not be prolonged beyond that 
time.” 

Philip turned to depart, but before he could gain the 
door a knock was heard, and a servant entered, bearing 
a card on a silver tray, which he presented to his mis- 
tress. 

“ Lord Beaulieu for Miss Paston,” he said. 

Philip started: Lady Kesterton frowned and bit 
her lip. 

“ Show Lord Beaulieu into this room,” she said, after 
a moment’s pause. “ I want to speak to him. ” 

“Shall I tell Elfrida to come here?” asked Philip. 

Thank you, no,” saidT Lady Kesterton, dryly. “I 
can summon Miss Paston myself when I want her. 
May I beg you to. leave me, Mr. Winyates?” 

And Philip had, of course, no choice but to obey, 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


A SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 

Lord Beaulieu did not know that he was about to 
enter Lady Kesterton’s presence. He started at the 
sight of her, sitting in her crape dress and widow’s cap 
at the fireside, and he would almost have turned back 
had she not spoken his name. 

“ Lord Beaulieu — come in, please ; I want to speak to 
you.” 

The young man entered in some confusion. He 
bowed low over her extended hand, and murmured a 
few words of sympathy, and of excuse for his appear- 
ance. 

“I had a message for Miss Paston,” he said, “and I 
thought I might perhaps find her at home without troub- 
ling you. Lady Kesterton. ” 

This was rather an awkward speech, but Lady Kester- 
ton’s answer somewhat relieved Beaulieu’s mind. 

“ I am glad you came. I had strong reason for wish- 
ing to see you. I was thinking of writing you a note. 
My recent affliction,” said Lady Kesterton piously, 
“ affords me no excuse for neglecting my duty. Pray 
sit down. Lord Beaulieu. ” 

He sat down and looked at his hat. It was not very 
easy to open a conversation with Lady Kesterton. But 
she began it of her own accord. 

“ I dare say you have been hearing some gossip in the 
24 369 


370 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

neighborhood respecting an incident which took place 
during the— the inquiry into the cause of my husband’s 
death. I mean an interview with Henry Paston. ” 

“ Well, yes, I havo heard something,” said Lord Beau- 
lieu. 

“ I wished to tell you myself the truth about it. You 
have heard, perhaps, that Henry Paston claims to be Bit* 
Anthony Kesterton’s eldest son?” 

“Yes, I heard that.” 

“ In a sense it is perfectly true. I am extremely sorry 
to have to go into the details of this story — the world 
need never have heard of it but for Henry Paston ’s in- 
discretion. I will not call it by a harsher word. Lord 
Beaulieu, Henry Paston is indeed Sir Anthony’s son, 
but Sir Anthony was never married to his mother.” 

“And — Elfrida!” said Beaulieu, hastily. 

“ She is, of course, in the same unfortunate position. ” 

Lord Beaulieu knit his brows and leaned back in his 
chair. He looked as if he were considering a question 
profoundly. 

“ Sir Anthony informed the boy Henry of the truth 
shortly after the fire. The boy was put to sleep in Sir 
Anthony’s dressing-room. I came in and heard part of 
the conversation. I heard Sir Anthony tell him what 
I now tell you — plainly and without disguise of any 
sort. What, then, was my horror and amaze. Lord 
Beaulieu, when I found, as soon as Sir Anthony was no 
more, that this boy was taking advantage of his death to 
gain a position for himself which certainly my husband 
never contemplated. He has had the audacity to declare 
that he is the eldest lawful son — the heir, you under- 
stand. He disputes the title with Gerald. I never 
heard anything so extraordinary in my life.” 


A SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 


371 


“ Blit — I cannot understand, ” said Beaulieu. “ I know 
Henry pretty well. He is not capable — ” He stopped 
for a moment, in the effort to express himself without 
giving offence. “ He would not make a statement that 
he did not think, at any rate, to be correct, I am sure. ” 
“Possibly,” said Lady Kesterton, in a doubtful tone. 
“ I know so little of the boy that I cannot give an opinion 
either way on that matter. But I believe most strongly 
that he is subject to hallucinations, and I think he has 
imagined half of what he says Sir Anthony told him. 
My dear Lord Beaulieu, I was present at the time,” her 
face turned a shade paler as she spoke, “ and I distinctly 
heard all that Sir Anthony had to say. The mother was 
a servant in the house — of course it was long before his 
marriage. Sir Anthony bitterly regretted it, and was 
wishful to do all in his power to repair the wrong to the 
children. But as to putting Henry in Gerald’s place, 
why — it is legally impossible, and poor Sir Anthony 
never dreamed of any such thing.” 

“ How has the mistake arisen, then?” said Lord Beau- 
lieu, his fair young face growing a little stern. The 
whole story shocked him more than he cared to say. 

“ I think that the poor boy did not understand,” said 
Lady Kesterton, in a compassionate tone. “You see, 
he has always been out of the world, and he does not 
perhaps realize the differences that are so great to us. ” 
“ He always seemed wonderfully bright and clever to 
me.” 

“ Yes, he has very good natural capacities. But you 
must remember what had just happened; he had been 
saved from a burning house by Philip’s bravery — yours 
also. Lord Beaulieu — and he had been very much over- 
excited and overstrained. Why, the very fact of sleep- 


372 


SlR ANTrtONY^S SECRET. 


ing — almost for the first time in his life — in another 
room was enough to unhinge him. The doctor says so. 
And in that excited, nervous state, he hears this story 
from Sir Anthony, and of course he does not hear it 
aright. He builds up his own theory upon it, and Sir 
Anthony — who alone could pht him right^is not here 
to clear tip the mistake. It is most unfortunate, and it 
places me in a very unpleasant position j I assure you, 
for I am obliged to act decisively for my ovm dear 
children’s sake.” 

“ Then — then — there is no proof of what Henry states? 
No letters — no certificates?” 

“ Absolutely nothing. ” 

“ Nothing but his bare word.” 

“ His bare word^against mine, Lord Beaulieu.” 

The young man bowed, muttered an indistinct “ 1 beg 
your pardon, ” and relapsed again into meditative silence. 

May I trouble you with one more question?” he said 
at last. “ What communication was Sir Anthony about 
to make to the world at large on the night of the ball? 
He was distinguishing Miss Fasten in every possible 
way — showing her every attention in his power. What 
did it all mean? He could not have been going to say 
publicly that she was his — his — illegitimate daughter.” 

Lord Beaulieu lowered his voice as he spoke the words. 
He came of an old race, and his ancestry was stainless. 
A shadow upon the birth of the woman that he loved was 
a matter of terrible significance to him. 

Lady Kesterton had already foreseen that this question 
would be asked ; it was a weak place in the armor. 
But she had provided herself with an answer. 

“ It was an ill-judged proceeding,” she said, lowering 
her eyelids. “ He did not mean to acknowledge her, 


A SNAKE IN THfi GI^ASS. 


373 


but he meant to make her a sort of heiress. He told 
me what he meant to do, and what he was going to say. 
it was her twenty-first birthday, and on that day she 
entered into possession of a sum of ten thousand pounds 
which an old friend (of course he meant himself) 
had left to her. He meant her to give up teaching 
and lead an easier and more enjoyable life, poor girl ; 
but his kindly plans Were frustrated by his sudden 
death.” 

“ Then is she left penniless?” said Beaulieu, with a 
keen look. “ Or will your ladyship be prepared to make 
the deficiency good? I gather that the deed or gift, or 
whatever it was, had not been executed?” 

“ It had not, but I grieve to say that I am quite unable 
to carry out Sir Anthony’s intentions. I cannot take 
my children’s money. I am, of course, but a trustee 
for them. If they were of age it would be a different 
thing. ” 

Lord Beaulieu was looking very pale, and there was 
an expression of deep concern upon his face. He rose 
hastily, and stood by the mantel -piece, grasping it with 
one hand as he spoke. 

“You are perfectly certain. Lady Kesterton, that 
Henry is mistaken — that there was no marriage between 
Sir Anthony and Henry’s mother?” 

“Oh, perfectly certain,” said Lady Kesterton. 

“ I am afraid,” said the young man, growing percepti- 
bly whiter, but looking very determined, “ that you must 
be correct. Forgive me for putting it in that way. Of 
course you do not know — though you may have guessed — 
what my feelings for Elfrida have been. But this — 
this—” 

“ It would be impossible, of course,” said Lady Kester- 


374 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


ton with decision, “ to marry her to the head of one of 
the oldest families in England. ” 

Lord Beaulieu pulled his mustache. That was ex- 
actly his own feeling. He did not want to behave badly 
to Elfrida. He was very much in love with her, and the 
thought of giving her up was a grief to him. But fam- 
ily pride was strong, and disgrace had never touched him 
yet. He could not be the first to bring the bar-sinister 
into his children’s pedigree. 

“If there were anyway,” he said, nervously, “in 
which I could make good to her the loss she has incurred 
through Sir Anthony’s sudden death. She need never 
know. If you would only take it upon you. Lady Kes- 
terton, to tell her just what Sir Anthony was going to 
say — that an old friend had left her some money? I 
could easily spare the sum you named — ten thousand 
would not be much to me if I could save her from 
poverty. ” 

Lady Kesterton listened in dismay. Was her own 
fiction to be the means of bringing comparative wealth 
to Elfrida and Henry? Wealth, too, that would perhaps 
be used against herself and her children? Her whole 
soul rose in arms to prevent such a consummation. 

“ I did not say that they would be left in poverty. Lord 
Beaulieu, ” she said in a dignified tone. “ Naturally, the 
family would not permit that. The Pastons have always 
been treated most liberally, and they will be provided 
for as usual. I could not think of allowing any such 
generosity on your part. ” 

Lord Beaulieu looked melancholy. 

“ I should have liked to do something, ” he said, “ some- 
thing that would make her life pleasanter for her. Any- 
thing — except — ” 


A SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 


375 


He stopped short; he knew that he was about to de- 
prive her of the one and only thing that could smooth 
her way in life for her. If he married her, Elfrida would 
be very securely protected from all evil chance. But to 
marry her now would have required a certain amount 
of heroism ; and Lionel, Lord Beaulieu, was not of the 
type which is capable of that sort of heroism. Physi- 
cally, he was brave enough ; he would have walked up 
to a cannon’s mouth, taken a live shell in his hands, or 
scaled the wall of an enemy’s fortress, with all the cool- 
ness in the world ; but he was not morally brave — he 
could not fly in society’s face and outrage its prejudices 
and the traditions of his house by taking for his wife a 
woman upon whose birth lay an indelible stain. It was 
the one thing that — even for Elfrida — he would not do. 

“ She will be in no need, I assure you, " said Lady 
Kesterton quickly ; her future is assured. Philip Win- 
yates, you know — ” and there she paused significantly. 

“ Winyates! Why, what has he to do with it?” asked 
Beaulieu, sharply. 

“ Well, it is no secret that he has been for some time 
devotedly attached to her. I fancy that even this un- 
happy discovery will make no difference. You see he 
has no title ; he comes of no really great family. Al- 
though he is allied to the Kestertons, his father was a 
nobody. It is not so unsuitable for him as it would be 
to you. ” 

“And Elfrida! She does not care for him,” said the 
young man, blushing hotly. He did not intend to marry 
Elfrida himself, but he did not like to hear of her being 
likely to marry anybody else. 

“Elfrida does not dislike him,” said Lady Kesterton 
discreetly. “ He told me that he had no fear of over- 


376 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


coming her scruples in course of time. You see he can 
make a home for Henry as well as for her, and that is 
an attraction.” 

“ But did she not — did she not — think of me?” cried 
Beaulieu, choking with the anger and mortification 
which, in spite of his pride, he was still capable of feeling. 

“My dear Lord Beaulieu,” said Lady Kesterton 
smoothly, “ of course she knew — she understood that 
you could not marry her under present circumstances.” 

“ She understood it, did she?” Lord Beaulieu came a 
step or two forward, and endeavored to master his almost 
overwhelming agitation and displeasure. “ Then I think 
there is nothing left for me to explain. I’ll say good- 
morning, Lady Kesterton. I don’t see any necessity 
for my seeing Elfrida, as she understands the position 
of things already. But she was always very clever — 
very — ” He made a dead pause and seemed to swallow 
something in his throat. “ There’s not much need for 
me to stay here any longer. I’m very much obliged to 
you. Lady Kesterton, for opening my eyes. If you tell 
Miss Paston that I’ve been— and gone— I dare say she 
will understand.” 

“Good-by, Lord Beaulieu,” said Lady Kesterton. 
“ I am so sorry that matters have not turned out more 
satisfactory. But you are too wise to regret for long 
what cannot be altered, and you may console yourself 
by the thought that you have done the best and wisest 
thing.” 

At present Lord Beaulieu did not find much consola- 
tion in this thought ; however, he took his leave without 
contradicting Lady Kesterton 's fine sentiments. And 
when he wa^ gone, L^d}^ Kesterton lay back in her chair 
and amiled, 


A SNAKE In tHE Grass. 


377 


“ tte was wonderfully easy to manage,” she said to 
herself. “ Much easier than I should have expected. 
He will go back to Betty now. Beatrice ought to be 
grateful to me. But I suppose it is useless to expect 
gratitude from her when she wants to keep Philip all to 
herself. Upon my word, I don’t know whether Philip 
still wants to tnarry Elfrida or not. I hope he does, 
and then he will take her out of my sight. She is too 
like — too like — ” 

Even in her thoughts Lady Kesterton did not pro- 
nounce the name. She shuddered a little as the face of 
Anthony Kesterton, fierce, mocking, defiant, as she had 
seen it last, rose up before her mind’s eye. There was 
certainly no likeness of expression between father and 
daughter, but there was an extraordinary resemblance 
of feature and coloring. No one to whom the clue had 
once been given, could ever fail to notice the similarity 
between the faces. 

Lady Kesterton was not quite without feeling — not 
quite without remorse. The many times that she had 
been obliged to mention Sir Anthony in the past inter- 
view had tried her nerves ; she sank back in her chair, 
sick and shuddering, when Lord Beaulieu had quitted 
the house. During the daytime she generally managed 
to banish all memories of him ; it was only at night, as 
a rule, that his face, dead or alive, seemed to haunt her 
with an unspoken reproach. But to think of that terrible 
night — to quote his speeches or to put speeches into his 
mouth — had been a little too much even for her nerves 
of steel : and she wished for a moment or two with all 
her heart that Sir Anthony were alive again, even if it 
were only to taunt her and to rob little Gerald of his 
inheritance. 


SIR ANTHONY^S SECRfet. 


37 ^ 

Meanwhile, Philip, sorely puzzled and troubled in 
mind, had gone to Elfrida, whom he found taking a 
noon-day walk up and down the picture-gallery, which 
had, almost miraculously, escaped injury from the fire 
in the west wing. 

“ Elfrida,” he said, gently, “ Lord Beaulieu is here.” 

She paused in her walk and clasped her hands ; the 
bright color leaped into her face. 

“ Did he ask for me?” 

“ I believe he did ; but Lady Kesterton asked to speak 
to him first He is with her in the librar)^ now.” 

The color faded from the girl’s cheeks; her hands 
fell to her side. 

“ Then it is all over,” she said, looking Philip straight 
in the face. “ She will make him believe — what she 
likes. ” 

“ I think that Beaulieu has got a will of his own,” 
said Philip. “But suppose you come down at once? 
I will go with you and brave my lady’s wrath. Let her 
say what she has to say in my presence and yours.” 

“ Thank you, Philip, ” she said, softly. “ You are very 
good — very generous.” She turned and gave him her 
trembling little hand to hold for a moment. “ No, I 
won’t go down. It would seem like distrusting Lionel, 
and I won’t do that.” 

“You love him, Elfie?’' 

“Yes — with my whole heart.” 

“And you think — you think you can trust him?” 

“ Philip!” 

“ My dear, it is only this— that if he believes in Lady 
Kesterton at all, he will hear what may prove a sore 
trial to his faith in you, or to his strength of will.” 

“Then he had better hear it at once,” said Elfrida, 


A SNAKE IN THE GRASS. 


379 


drawing herself up to her full height. “ He had better 
hear the very worst. Then I shall know how much his 
love is worth.” 

And she resumed her walk up and down the gallery, 
with hands clasped behind her and head bent down. 
Philip paced beside her, rather by way of giving her 
his company than because he had anything to say. 

‘‘ If he comes up here — to me,” said Elfrida at last in 
a trembling, voice, “you will leave us for a little while, 
will you not, Philip?” 

“My dear,” he said, softly, “I will.” But in his 
heart he did not believe that Lord Beaulieu would ever 
come. He knew the power of Lady Kesterton’s enven^ 
omed tongue. 

For some time they walked up and down. Philip was 
wretched, knowing all that Elfrida must be enduring, 
but he did not speak. He was sure that she preferred 
silence — a silence in which she was listening — listen- 
ing — straining every nerve to hear the footfall on the 
stairs, the hand upon the door, that did not come. 

At last they heard one sound. It was the reverbera- 
tion of the clang with which the great hall door always 
closed after a guest. Elfrida stopped short, and put her 
hand to her throat. “ He has gone!” she whispered. 

“ No, no, I hope not. Elfrida, dearest, do not look 
like that. He cannpt have gone without seeing you. 
Let me go and inquire.” 

“No,” she said, firmly; “you need not. I am per- 
fectly sure of it. I feel that he has gone. But you 
may come with me if you like to Lady Kesterton and 
ask her what she has said that has driven him away.” 

It was with a proud step and erect head that she en- 
tered the librarj^ and stood before Lady Kestefton. 


380 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


Philip entered also and closed the door behind him. 
Lady Kesterton evidently misunderstood the motive of 
Elfrida’s action, for she smiled in her coldest and most 
malignant manner as she remarked: “ You are too late, 
Miss Paston, Lord Beaulieu has gonq.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


IN Beaulieu’s place. 

“ I AM aware that he is gone,” said Elfrida. What 
I came to ask you was why I was not told that he was 
here, when, I believe, he came especially to see me. ” 
Lady Kesterton darted a swift look at Philip. She 
was not altogether displeased, however, that he had dis- 
obeyed her cornmands. 

“ Lord Beaulieu came in the first instance to see you,” 
she said ; “ but after a little conversatiop with me he 
relinquished that intention, and other intentions as 
well.” 

“ Lady Kesterton, surely you could let Beaulieu an^ 
swer for himself,” cried Philip, hotly, 

“Never mind, Philip,” said Elfrida. She was white 
to the lips now, and was standing with her hands pressed 
lightly on the back of a chair. This support was really 
necessary to her just then, for the room swam round, 
and she felt as if she were on the point of falling ; but 
she was all the more anxious to hide her feeling of 
weakness from Lady Kesterton. “Never mind,” she 
said, valiantly, “ Lord Beaulieu will write to me, no 
doubt. I am only anxious to know on what pretext I 
was denied to him to-day. ” 

“No pretext was necessary,” said Lady Kesterton, 
icily. “ Beaulieu knew you were in the house, but he did 
not wish to see you. He said that he thought it would be 
best for him to go away, and that you would understand. ” 

381 


382 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ He said that r 

“ Yes, he did.” 

“ Then you must please inform me what you told him 
first to make him say so. ” 

The words were quiet enough, but there was a ring of 
scorn and passion in her voice which made them effec- 
tive. 

“ I do not know that I need reply to a question asked 
so insolently, ” said Lady Kesterton, coldly; “but per- 
haps it will save trouble in the end if I do so. I told 
Lord Beaulieu the circumstances under which you and 
your brother are leaving my house, and of the extraor- 
dinary statement which your brother chooses to make 
respecting my husband’s previous life; and Lord Beau- 
lieu, being very properly shocked, declined to see you 
again. ” 

“Declined to see me again!” Elfrida repeated, with 
a little gasp. 

“ Certainly. He gave me to understand that he had 
thought of asking you to be his wife. He very wisely 
abstained, I believe, from mentioning his project until 
after your twenty-first birthday, when you were to learn 
your history — ” 

“ I asked him to wait! I asked him myself!” said the 
girl. 

“ Ah, well, it seems he did wait ; and now that he 
knows who you are, he says that of course it is impossible 
for him to ask you to marry him. ” 

“I think,” said Philip, “that this message, if it is a 
message, might be given with a little more gentleness 
and delicacy. Lady Kesterton. ” 

“ I don’t see that it matters how the message is given, 
so long as it is given at all,” said Lady Kesterton^ with 


IN Beaulieu’s place. 3S3 

deliberate coldness. “ I have no wish to give it other 
than correctly. You can ask Lord Beaulieu for your- 
self ; he is at liberty to contradict any statement that 
I have made in his name. ” 

“ Elfrida, shall I go to him?” said Philip, turning 
eagerly to the girl, who with white lips and dilated 
eyes stood with her fingers still rigidly clasped upon the 
back of the chair. “ Shall I ask him whether he said 
this thing? If he loved you, surely he would never 
send you a message of this kind!” 

“ No, Philip, you need not go,” she answered, quietly, 
but the tone and the music seemed to have gone out of 
her voice. “ If there is any mistake he is quite well 
able to explain it to me himself.” 

“Why should there be any mistake?” said Lady Kes- 
terton. “ What other line do you suppose that Lord 
Beaulieu could take? He is the head of one of the old- 
est families in the kingdom ; he has a stainless record — 
he comes of a glorious race ; would you have him take 
you to be his wife? It was enough of a mesalliance when 
you were a governess without a penny ; but now — when 
you are worse than a nobody — what man of decent fam- 
ily would care to take you as his wife?” 

“ Lady Kesterton, this is too much,” said Philip, com- 
manding himself, though with great difficulty, so far as 
to speak calmly; “ I beg to contradict every word that 
you have uttered. Elfrida is fit to be any man’s wife; 
and if proof were needed that I think so, I will here 
repeat an offer that I made to her before the sad story 
to which you allude was made public. I ask her, in 
your presence. Lady Kesterton, to be my wife. I assure 
you that she shall have every happiness that love and 
care and respect can give; and that she shall never 


384 


SIR ANTHONY S SECRET, 


regret the day when she gave her life into my keeping. 
Elfrida!” 

He turned to her, and laid his hand gently on the 
rigid fingers that clasped the chair. She looked at him, 
but with blank, despairing eyes ; almost as though she 
had not listened to what he said. 

“Elfrida, my dearest! Listen to me. Won’t you 
come to me? I love you and shall always love you, 
whatever happens. I will take you away from here, if 
you will come, and make a home for you — and for Henry 
too ; then you will never be separated from him again. 
Will you not trust me with yourself, Elfie — and with 
him?” 

He had touched the only chord that was likely to vi- 
brate in Elfrida’s breast at such a moment. Her fingers 
stirred beneath Philip’s clasp; a look of conscious pain 
and yearning came into her large gray eyes. But still — 
though her lips moved and quivered — she did not speak. 

“ This may be a very pretty scene,” said Lady Kester- 
ton, with a chilling scorn, “ and perhaps I ought to be 
gratified by the spectacle of your love-making, Philip; 
but I really think it exceedingly inappropriate. ” 

“ I think it could not be more appropriate, ” said Philip, 
turning to face her with a dignity of manner which some- 
what surprised and overawed her. “ I have stood by 
and heard you insult Elfrida in Lord Beaulieu’s name; 
the occasion could not be more appropriate for me to de- 
clare my undying love and reverence for the woman I 
love.” 

“ You had better make up your mind to accept Philip’s 
offer. Miss Paston, ” said Lady Kesterton, abruptly. “I 
assure you it will be long before you find another man 
bold enough to take you and your brother on his hands.” 


IN Beaulieu’s place. 


385 

The taunt was meant to wound, and it sent the hot 
blood flying to Philip’s brow; but the whiteness of El- 
frida’s face remained unchanged. It gave her back, 
however, the power of speech, which for a time she 
seemed to have lost. 

“ You are quite right,” she said, in broken tones so un- 
like her own that they wrung Philip’s heart with pas- 
sionate love and pity. “No man will be bold enough 
but Philip, and if he likes to take me — a poor thing that 
others have flung away — what am I, that I should re- 
fuse?” 

“You are my queen and my sovereign lady,” said 
Philip. “ Accept me for any reason you like, my dar- 
ling, and I will show you what true love means.” 

He put his arm round her and drew her close to him ; 
she trembled like a reed but she did not resivSt. 

“When this comedy is ended,” said Lady Kesterton, 
“ I should prefer to have the room to myself.” 

“ You may be thankful. Lady Kesterton,” said Philip, 
sternly, “ that you have not the guilt of a tragedy at 
your door.” 

He turned to the door, leading Elfrida gently by the 
arm. She seemed perfectly submissive, and let herself 
be guided from the room with a docility which she was 
not usually so ready to exhibit. When they were gone. 
Lady Kesterton sank back in her chair with something 
not unlike a shudder. His words had touched her more 
keenly than he knew. “ The guilt of a tragedy” lay 
already at her door. 

She was looking white and unnerved when the lunch- 
eon bell rang, and Lady Beltane swept into the room to 
make a careless inquiry after her cousin’s health. “ You 
are coming in to luncheon, I suppose, Eva?” 

25 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


386 

“No, I think not,” said Lady Kesterton faintly. “I 
don’t feel equal to it to-day.” 

“ You look awfully pale. I think you are giving way 
too much — and really — I did not know that you and Sir 
Anthony—” 

“ Don’t speak of him ; don’t mention his name to me !” 
cried Eva with sudden, unwonted passion. “ I can’t bear 
any more— I have heard enough of him to-day — ” 

And then came a rush of tears, a burst of sobbing, 
which, as a matter of fact, took Lady Beltane somewhat 
by surprise. But after a moment’s stare, she sat down 
by her cousin, patted her shoulder, and essayed some- 
thing in the way of consolation. 

“Don’t cry, dear. You are thoroughly overdone. 
You ought to go away somewhere for a change, do you 
know. Let me send you in a glass of wine and a bit of 
bird — -it will do you good? There’s no use in starving 
oneself, even if one is in trouble.” And certainly Lady 
Beltane looked as if she had experienced the truth of 
her own words. 

“Yes, I am overdone,” said Lady Kesterton, recover- 
ing herself a little, and lying back with closed eyes. 
“ Don’t let me keep you here, Beatrice. Go and get 
your lunch — I’ll take something presently. Then come 
back ; I have something to tell you. ” 

“ All right, ” said Lady Beltane, good-humoredly. She 
went away to the dining-room, thinking to herself, 
“ What incomprehensible creatures we women are ! I 
am quite sure that Eva detested Sir Anthony when he 
was alive, and she is crying her eyes out for him now. 
Just when she is left perfectly independent, too, and 
can have her own way for the first time in her life. I 
call it ridiculous.” 


IN Beaulieu’s place, 387 

She seated herself at the luncheon table, and then 
noticed that she was there alone. 

“Where is Mr. Winyates?” she said to the butler who 
stood behind her chair. 

“ Mr. Winyates is lunching upstairs to-day, my lady. ’’ 

“With the Pastons, I suppose,” said Lady Beltane to 
herself ; but she had too much regard for her own dig- 
nity to say a word aloud. She helped herself carefully 
from the dainty dishes that had been prepared, ordered 
a lunch for Lady Kesterton, and drank some very fine 
Madeira, indulging meanwhile in speculations respect- 
ing the present state of affairs at the Park. 

“ I wonder what has been going on this morning. 
Everybody has been invisible. I heard that Lord Beau- 
lieu had called. Did he come to see Eva or Elfrida 
Paston, I wonder? I’ll find it out from Eva after lunch. 
I hardly know whether to wish that he would stick to 
Elfrida or not. If he does, Philip will be left out in 
the cold, but poor little Betty will break her heart. 
Poor little Betty ! — silly little fool ! I really believe she 
thinks that Lionel is perfection — and he is only a hand- 
some, conceited boy, without a grain of nobility in his 
composition. Well, here’s for Eva and confidences ; I’ll 
make her give me this morning’s history before I’ve 
done.” 

And after a little lingering over the cup of black coffee 
with which she liked to conclude her mid-day meal. 
Lady Beltane repaired once more to the library. 

“So you have something to tell me,” she said, after 
having made a few polite inquiries respecting her 
cousin, feelingly. 

“Yes, something that will surprise you,” Lady Kes- 
terton answered, languidly. She was feeMng stronger 


388 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


now, and she took a little malicious pleasure in thinking 
of the news that she had to tell. 

“I don’t think anybody could surprise me now,” 
said Beatrice, sinking into the depths of a big arm-chair, 
and holding out one pointed foot to the cheery blaze of 
the fire. In her heart she was reflecting that Eva had 
grown very plain, and that black was decidedly unbe- 
coming. 

“ Lord Beaulieu was here this morning. He was 
asking for Elfrida Paston. Fortunately the card was 
brought to me ; so I sent for him here at once, and 
told him about the recent development of affairs. Of 
course, he had heard some gossip, and 1 thought it 
right that he should receive a connect version of the 
story.” 

“That was rather clever of you,” said Lady Beltane 
dispassionately. ‘‘Well, what did he say?” 

“ Oh, he took the rational view of things. ” 

“Threw Elfrida Paston over, eh?” 

“Well, Beaulieu was not very likely to wish to marry 
a girl of such antecedents. ” 

“Ah, that is just like the men of the present day!” 
said Beatrice, throwing back her golden head with a 
look of disgust. “They swear eternal devotion, and 
then the least obstacle daunts them. I have not the 
slightest respect for Beaulieu’s fiddle-faddle about 
‘family claims ’ ! I knew exactly what he would say. 
Who thinks anything of a man’s family nowadays? 
Beaulieu is perfectly antediluvian in his ideas. ” 

“Philip Winyates will please you better, then,” said 
her cousin dryly. “You will be glad to hear that his 
constancy was not disturbed by any considerations about 
Elfrida’s birth.” 


IN BEAULIEU'S PLACE. 389 

"‘What do you mean?” said Lady Beltane, flushing 
angrily. 

“ I mean that he brought her down here to ask why 
Beaulieu had gone away; and when he found that the 
young man had backed out of the entanglement he 
offered himself to Elfrida there and then; and she 
accepted him. ” 

Beatrice listened with wide-open eyes, and turned a 
little paler; but recovering herself almost instantly, 
burst into a fit of scornful laughter. 

“ What an idyll ! What a story for a three-volume 
novel! She accepted him, did she, as she could not 
get Lionel? I wonder Philip likes to b§ made a con- 
venience of in that way!” 

“You see he is very much in love with her,” said 
Lady Kesterton, with a somewhat contemptuous 
smile. 

“ In love with hgr | I suppose he is. How long will 
it last? And what are they going to do? You do not 
propose that they should live here, I suppose?’' 

“They are going away to London. Philip takes 
charge of the party. I do not want either to see them 
or hear of them again, ” 

“ But you will have to hear of them a good deal, won’t 
you? Did I not hear that the boy Henry means to fight 
the matter out? Suppose he wins the day, 

“ He cant win the day!” 

“ Ah, well ! One never knows how events may turn, 
you know,” said Lady Beltane, more with a view of 
saying a vexing thing than with any distinct signifi- 
cance. She was surprised to see that Lady Kesterton ’s 
face turned white, and that her eyes dilated as if in 
fear, 


390 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


‘‘Beatrice! Beatrice! — do you know anything? Has 
anything been discovered?” 

“ Discovered? No. How can you be so silly, Eva? 
What is there to discover? If you had the truth from 
Sir Anthony’s own lips what else can there be to 
know?” 

“ Of course — of course ! I only thought you meant 
that something new had come to light. My nerves 
are out of tune, I think,” said Lady Kesterton, pressing 
her handkerchief to her lips in order to conceal their 
trembling. 

“I should think they were indeed,” said Beatrice, 
giving her a keen look. “ But I would not talk in that 
way if I were you, Eva. It sounds, somehow, as if you 
were — afraid. ’’ 

And with this Parthian shot she left the room. Lady 
Kesterton buried her face in her handkerchief and 
moaned aloud. I am afraid. I am afraid all day 
long,” she whispered to herself. “ Oh, if anybody were 
to suspect — what should I do?” 

And meanwhile Beatrice was thinking, If I were a 
suspicious person I should say that Eva knew more than 
she chose to say about the Pastons’ affairs. I’m in- 
clined to believe the version of that blue-eyed boy 
rather than hers. However, it’s no business of mine, 
and I’m sure I don’t want to see her and her children 
turned out of Kesterton Park and the Pastons ruling 
here instead. Fancy Elfrida and Philip at the head of 
affairs! That is what it would come to, I suppose.” 
She stopped and made a pettish gesture. “What a 
ridiculous idea ! Ah, here comes Master Phil himself. 
I must have a word with him !” 

Philip was coming down as she went upstairs. They 


IN Beaulieu’s place. 391 

met on a broad central landing, dimly lighted by a 
window of colored glass. Philip would have passed 
her with a mere word of recognition, but she detained 
him by a remark to which he felt himself forced to 
reply. 

“ So you have taken Beaulieu’s place?” she said. 

“ Lord Beaulieu has behaved with great heartless- 
ness,” he answered. 

“ And you felt it incumbent upon you to atone for his 
misdeeds?” 

He looked at her gravely. “ I cannot atone to El- 
frida for anything that Lord Beaulieu has done,” he 
said ; “ but I can try to make her happy. ” 

“ Am I to call you Don Quixote, then, or the Bayard 
of our time?” 

“Lady Beltane, your words are unworthy of you,” 
said Philip, with increasing seriousness. “You know 
that I love Elfrida with my whole heart •. I am honored 
by her consent to become my wife.” 

“ You really mean it !” she said, looking him curiously 
in the face. “ Yes, I believe you do. But there are 
few men who would act as you have done. ” 

“ I do not agree with you. ” 

“ What ! to marry a nameless, homeless, penniless 
girl, who does not even love you — ” 

“ I have a strong belief that she will love me in time. 
And after all. Lady Beltane, love is not such a selfish 
thing as you suppose. It can give itself — as you ought 
to know — without hoping for any return. ” 

There was a short silence, and then Beatrice looked 
up with a slow, sweet smile. 

“ You are right,” she said, “ as you always were — and 
I am as invariably in the wrong. Will you be friends 


392 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


with me still, Philip, and tell me sometimes what yon 
are going to do? I don't want to lose you altogether.” 

“I shall be very glad to be ‘friends’ with you,” 
said Philip, smiling a little, “ if only—” 

“ If only Elfrida will let you!” 

“ I was going to say — if you will be Elfrida’s friend 
as well. ” 

“ Of course 1 will, if Elfrida herself permits. So you 
are going away? Do you know where you will go?” 

“ Not in the least; I shall settle that to-morrow when 
1 go up to London.” 

“ I wish I could ask her to my house ; but in the pres- 
ent state of internecine warfare, I suppose that is impos- 
sible. How absurd it is! Surely they don’t mean to 
persevere in that silly claim of theirs?” 

“ I do not see the absurdity of it. They will perse- 
vere so far as to make some inquiries, which can easily 
be discontinued at any moment,” said Philip steadily. 
“ If a marriage had taken place, it would be far less dis- 
creditable to Sir Anthony than the present state of 
affairs. ” 

“ Ah, but it would dispossess little Gerald, you know, ” 
said Lady Beltane, half lightly, half bitterly. “No 
wonder Eva Kesterton keeps her own counsel.” 

Philip started. “ What ! you think — ” 

“I think nothing,” said Beatrice, looking into his 
eyes with the lustrous gaze that he knew so well ; “ but 
I — I will help you if I can.” 

And she passed on, having re-established an influence 
over Philip which Elfrida might have regretted had 
she known of it. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


CONTENT. 

When Philip led Elfrida away from the library ho ' 
was feeling half-afraid of his own success. He fancied 
at any moment she might turn round on him and say, 

“ I made a mistake. I did not know what I was say- 
ing — I cannot marry you.” It was under the stress of 
this feeling that he stayed her steps for a moment out- 
side the door of Henry’s sitting-room, to which, with 
some vagpie notion of seeking sympathy or counsel, 
they had both instinctively turned ; and once more put- 
ting his arm round her, he said, almost timidly ; 

“ Dear Elfie, I will try to make you happy.” 

She started and drew herself away from him, 

“ Happy?” she said, with a certain kind of alarm. “ I 
shall never be happy again.” 

“You will make others happy — Henry and myself,” 
said Philip, feeling it- well to press this point home, 
But her reply was not very encouraging. 

“It is all that is left,” she said. Then she looked 
round her with a terrified air. “Why am I here? 
This is Henry’s room! Oh, I can’t go in-^I can’t see 
him yet. You must tell him — explain it all to him. 

I am going to my own room. ” 

“ Will you not come in and see Henry, dear?” 

“No, no, I can’t!” 

“ But I may tell him — ” 

“ Tell him anything you like, but let me go ! Oh, 
393 


394 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


let me go!” cried the girl, wrenching herself away 
from his arm with unaccustomed violence — although 
his hold on her was extremely light — “ I must be alone 
a little while — tell him I’ll come back soon.” And 
away she went, scudding along the passage like a 
frightened hare, while Philip watched her with a 
strangely uneasy sensation. Had he done well, he 
wondered, to wrest a promise from her just when her 
heart was wrung by the desertion of her fine lord-lover? 
Would she not one day turn upon him and reproach 
him for having secured her by guile? If he had waited 
even a day longer, would she not very likely have said 
him nay? 

But his heart rose up strongly and proudly, even as 
he asked himself these questions; and it said No, I 
am doing her no wrong. She will learn to prize a 
man’s true love, and unless I am mistaken in her nature, 
she will love me back again some day. I can wait 
— yes, I can wait. Some day she will give me what I 
crave; she will be as loving some day as she will be 
true But, poor child, in the mean time she will suffer 
and I shall not be able to help her much. God guide 
us through the troublous days that I see before us!” 

He opened the door and entered Henry’s room. He 
had not been there five minutes before the boy divined 
something of the truth. For at first Philip felt that he 
could not tell him ; he had to wait and gather his forces 
together before he could feel strong enough to tell his 
tale. He knew that Henry would feel the slight offered 
to his sister by Lord Beaulieu with exceeding keenness. 

He was not mistaken 

The boy drew his lips together with an expression of 
deep pain. 


CONTENT* 


395 


“I never thought it of Beaulieu,” he said, in a low 
tone. “ He always seemed to me so brave — so manly 
and honorable.” 

“ He has acted like a cad! ” said Philip, warmly, “ but 
then, we must remember that the case was probably 
put very strongly to him by Lady Kesterton. ” 

Yes, but he might have heard our side first before 
he went away,” said Henry. “Perhaps, if he had 
talked to me — ” 

“ I’m afraid it wouldn’t have made much difference, 
Hal ” 

“ Don’t you think so?” Henry sighed, and was silent. 
Then, with a rather bitter smile, “ When we have 
proved our case, and Elfie is the heir of Kesterton, he 
will feel that he has made a mistake. ” 

“Will that day ever come, Harry?” 

“ I believe it will. There must be a proof somewhere. 
If you had heard my father speak, Phil, you never 
would have doubted.” 

“ You are quite sure you understood him aright?” 

“Quite sure,” said Henry decisively. And Philip 
said no more. He wondered a little, however, when 
the boy murmured, as if to himself, a few seconds later, 
“Poor Lady Betty!” 

“And why ‘poor Lady Betty?’ ” he ventured to ask. 

“ Because she believes in hint. ” Then, after another 
pause, “ Is Elfie not coming to speak to me?” 

“ She is in her room — she wants to be alone for a 
little time. One cannot wonder at that.” 

But Philip grew very restless as the day went on and 
Elfrida did not appear. He almost wished that he had 
taken Lady Beltane more into his confidence, and asked 
her to go to Elfrida’s room. It was well for him that 


396 • SIR ANTHONY^S SECRET* 

he did not. In the girl’s present high-strung state it 
would have seemed to her that Lady Beltane repre- 
sented all that was odious in the relations of women to 
men. Beatrice had been loved by Philip; she had 
flirted with him after her marriage. And he had 
allowed it. Men were all alike, she supposed; all 
ready to amuse themselves at a woman’s expense^ and 
to leave her when she proved troublesome, or they were 
tired of the game. If Beatrice had appeared at 
Elfrida’s door, the girl was capable of fising up and 
putting an end to her newly-formed engagement there 
and then. It was fortunate, therefore, for Philip that 
he did not ask Lady Beltane to go. 

Beatrice very nearly Went of her own accord. She 
knew that her appearance would not be very pleasing 
to Elfrida, and, perhaps for that very reason, she would 
.not have been very sorry to present herself. But, with 
all her faults, Beatrice had a heart. She loved Philip 
more sincerely than she had ever loved man, woman, 
or child in her life before; and his engagement to 
Elfrida was a sorrow and a mortification to her. As 
long as Elfrida had been on the point of engaging her- 
self to another man, Lady Beltane had been (after the 
first) disposed to defy her power over Philip. There 
was always a chance that Phil would return to his old 
allegiance. But when he had induced Elfrida to prom- 
ise to marry him, Beatrice felt that she was, as she 
would have expressed it, “out of the running.” 

Elfrida was lying upon her bed, straight and cold 
and stiff, as if she had died and her body awaited burial. 
She had a faint sense of having died to everything that 
was beautiful and enjoyable in life. Beaulieu’s deser- 
tion had cut her to the heart. The only thing that 


CONTENT. 


397 


saved her from despair was her remembrance of others 
that she had known ; bright unselfish beings like Lady 
Betty and her brother Henry, a man of noble mind and 
high motives, like Philip Winyates, a devoted, kindly- 
natured woman like poor old Terry. That “such of 
these had lived” was her only comfort in that hour of 
woe. 

There was a still more potent consoler for her in the 
thought of those who required her help. Without her, 
she knew that Henry would be desolate indeed. She 
must live for him, if for no one else. Otherwise^ she 
thought to herself, there Would be no reason why she 
should not find sorne way of ending her life, as other 
disappointed men and women had done before her. 
Most young people think these things when they meet 
with the first great obstacle in life ; it ia only later that 
they learn how placidly life can flow in opposite direc- 
tions from that which they wished it to take. 

Her consent to marry Philip was to her mind at that 
moment a mere detail. Why should she care ? What 
would it matter whethei* she married Philip or not? 
Since her life had gone to pieces in this way, she might 
as well do the thing that seemed best for her to do. She. 
had not the energy to refuse him. It was he who would 
give Henry a home— and Henry was the only person 
for whom she cared or felt any responsibility. This 
was the best way of providing for Henry ; as for herself, 
it did not matter. She could never be happy again ; as 
well be unhappy this way as another. 

And through all these reasonings and imaginings there 
was at the back of her brain an increasing throb of 
shame. Lord Beaulieu’s desertion of her had brought 
home more clearly than anything else could have done 


398 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

the aspect of her position before the world. She had 
no family, no friends, no name. Oh, why had she not 
been left in ignorance? Why must Sir Anthony have 
told his story to Henry, and why must Henry have mis- 
understood it so wildly and so cruelly? 

She had quite decided that Henry was mistaken. At 
first she had been disposed to believe what he told her, 
but after hearing Lady Kesterton’s version of the story, 
and finding that there seemed absolutely no proof of 
Sir Anthony’s marriage with Mary Derrick (or Mary 
Paston, as she had so long been called) ^ Elfrida had be- 
gun regretfully and tenderly to say to herself that, after 
all, poor Harry might perhaps have ^ been feverish and 
oVer-excited — that he did not know much of the world, 
and that he had probably failed to understand. If there 
had been but a shadow of support to Henry’s story she 
would have stood to it bravely ; but there was, as far as 
she knew, not a line of writing, not a single witness, 
in the world. It was all a mistake, or worse than a mis- 
take ; for, if it could not be proved, it sounded so like a 
lie! She did not blame Henry in the least, and of 
course she could not suspect him of deliberate falsifica- 
tion — that was an utter impossibility, not only to 
Henry’s sister, but to any one who knew Henry well ; but 
she did heartily wish that Sir Anthony had not opened 
the subject at all, and that Henry had been content to 
bear the name he had been called by all his life. 

With this discouragement of feeling upon her it was 
perhaps no wonder that Elfrida entirely forgot the 
envelope that had been sent to her on Mr. Watson’s 
death. The address that it contained, and the request 
that she would use it if she were in trouble, had passed 
completely out of her mind. It recurred to her memory 


CONTENT. 399 

at a later date, but just when it might possibly have 
been of use to her, she did not think of it. 

In the evening she bestirred herself, bathed her 
aching head and eyes, changed her dress, and went 
down to Henry’s room, wondering, with a little pang 
of remorse, whether he had missed her. She found 
him alone, in a darkened room, with the fire nearly 
out. “ Is that you, Elfie? ” he asked patiently, when she 
came in. 

♦ “Yes, darling. How cold you are!” 

“ Philip is out, and I think the servant has forgotten 
me.” 

“ Have you had tea?” 

“ It’s over there on the wicker table. I couldn’t get 
it for myself, you know; so I have been waiting for 
you. ” 

“ Oh, my poor Hal, and it is nearly 7 o’clock ! What 
a wretch I am!” 

“ You had a headache, dear — Phil told me.” 

“ Yes; but that is no excuse for my neglect of you,” 
said Elfrida, soberly. “ I am very sorry. ” 

She lighted the candles, stirred up the fire, and put the 
kettle on the embers, resolving to make fresh tea for 
herself and her brother. But a number of hindrances 
came to delay her. The fire was low, and the kettle 
would not boil ; repeated rings at the bell brought no 
answer; and when Elfrida at last ventured into the 
housekeeper’s regions to ask for more tea, she was met 
with rudeness which drove her back to Henry’s room, 
saying to herself that she would never ask for anything 
again so long as she was in that house. She had got at 
last what she wanted, and was proceeding to pour out 
the freshly-made beverage, with hot cheeks and trem- 


400 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


bling hand, when a knock came to the door ; and almost 
immediately afterward there appeared James, Sir An- 
thony’s man, who carried, with all his usual solemnity, a 
silver tray, on which stood a silver teapot and hot-water 
jug and sugar-basin, and a plate of dainty little cakes. 

“ Who are those for? Mr. Winyates is not here,” said 
Elfrida, with a momentary sharpness of accent. 

“ It’s not for Mr. Winyates, ma’am ; it’s for you and — 
er — Sir ’Enry, if I’m not taking a liberty.” 

An inarticulate exclamation broke from Elfrida’s lips. 
Henry turned scarlet and then white. It was the first 
time that he had heard himself called by the title which 
he knew to be his by right. 

“ I beg your pardon, I’m sure, sir,” said James, oare- 
fully adjusting the tea-service on a little table at Henry’s 
side. “ I know that just at present we ain’t supposed to 
use the name ; but no doubt that’s only a matter of time. 
I took the liberty of bringing up these cakes and a little 
good cream, ma’am, having heard that Mrs. Bates was 
not in the best of humors over such a late tea” — it was 
skilful of J ames to put the matter in that light — “ and 
if there’s anything you want doing, ma’am, as long as 
I am in the house I shall be only too pleased to do it.” 

“James,” cried Henry, restored to sudden animation 
by this mark of belief in his claims, “ have you any rea- 
son for this? Did Sir Anthony — ” 

He paused, for Elfrida had given him a warning look., 
“ No, sir,” said James, grasping the meaning of Henry’s, 
question in spite of Elfrida’s glance, “ vSir Anthony didn’t 
never say anything to me, sir; but if it’s a question of 
your word and my lady’s, I’d sooner take yours any 
day. Sir ’Enry, and I shall be glad to see you come by 
your own. ” 


CONTENT. 


401 


So saying, he bowed and gravely withdrew, while 
the brother and sister, left alone, looked at each other 
Avith a mixture of comic and tragic sensations which 
kept them silent for a moment or two. 

“ Poor James! He believes in me almost more than 
my sister does,” said Henry at last, with a faint laugh. 
At which Elfrida impulsively hastened to him, and laid- 
her head on the pillow beside his face. 

“ Darling, I do believe in you!” she said. 

“I wish others had James’ faith,” he answered sadly. 

He had spoken very little of the claim which he had 
put forward. When once he understood that his word 
was not believed, he had seemed to shrink into himself, 
to become absorbed in a mournful, observant silence 
which was not very natural to his disposition. And 
Elfrida was not anxious to discuss the subject. 

When tea was over, Philip appeared, asking with some 
timidity if he might come in. He was agreeably sur- 
prised by the calmness of Elfrida’s demeanor. He had 
half expected to find a tragic muse — a passionate woman 
with reddened eyes and dishevelled hair and garments — > 
a Niobe all tears. But he saw only a pale, quiet girl, 
sitting by her brother’s couch, holding his, hand in one 
of hers, and supporting her chin on the other. She 
looked tired and languid, and her eyes were heavy, with 
dark shadows underneath; but there was no trace of 
passion or excitement about her. From the expression 
of Henry’s face, Philip surmised that their talk had 
been about him. He was emboldened, therefore, to 
put his hand gently on Elfrida’s shoulder, and to say; 

“ I think Henry is glad, dear.” 

“Yes, I am very glad,” said Henry, quickly. 

But Elfrida showed no responsiveness. It was in the 
26 


402 


SIR Anthony’s s-ecret. 


hopeless look of her downcast face that Philip read the 
depths of her secret sorrow. She sat silent, as if she 
could find no word to say. 

An odd little stillness fell over the group. Philip 
waited, almost as much confused as he had. ever been 
in his life; Henry, anxious and perplexed. Then at 
last Elfrida lifted her head and spoke. 

“You want me to say something, and you know I 
haven’t anything to say. Why should I pretend with 
you too? You both understand what I feel.” 

“My poor Elfie!” whispered Henry, but Philip could 
not speak. 

“ I have said I would marry you, ” said the girl, look- 
ing at Philip, “but you know very well that I don’t 
love you as — as one ought to love the person one mar- 
ries. I like you, I respect you, I — I’m awfully grateful 
to you for all you have done for Henry and me ; but 
that— that’s all. If it isn’t enough, tell me so— set me 
free. I don’t want to do what is wrong; but I don’t 
feel as if I knew what is wrong and what is right.” 

“ Dear Elfrida, you are doing what is perfectly right, ” 
said Philip, in a strong and assured tone of voice. He 
felt sure that strength was what she needed. He took 
her cold little hand in his own and held it fast as he 
spoke. “ I am quite content with what you give me ; 
God knows it is more than I deserve. I will try to 
make you happy, dear. You shall not regret that you 
have promised to be my wife. ” 

He drew her closer to him, and kissed her tenderly. 
She shivered a little and hung her head; but imme- 
diately afterward, almost as though she repented of her 
coldness, she lifted her pale face and gave him back his 
kiss of her own accord. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


TOO late! 

' Philip was toli of James’ attentions, and interviewed 
the man in the hopes of getting some information from 
him respecting Sir Anthony’s habits and secrets; but 
James avowed himself unable to give him any help. 
He knew nothing of Sir Anthony’s past life, he said; he 
had not been many years at Kesterton Park, and had 
never been taken at all into his master’s confidence ; 
but “if it came to matters of truth-telling,” he main- 
tained, “ he knew who could speak the truth and who 
couldn’t; and he’d a deal rather trust to Mr. ’Enry, — 
Sir ’Enry, he would like to say — than to my lady, who 
didn’t much mind — ” 

Here Philip checked him rather sharply, for he did 
not want to hear the opinion of the servants’ hall respect- 
ing Lady Kesterton ’s truthfulness. But as he was 
turning away the man spoke again. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir, but if you should be want- 
ing a servant. I’m leaving here this week — ” 

“I’m afraid I can’t do with a man, James,” said 
Philip, with a laugh. “ I’m going to live economically. ” 

“ But Sir ’Enry — he’s — ” 

“ You had better say ‘ Mr. Henry’ for the present, ” said 
Philip, quickly. 

“Mr. ’Enry, I beg pardon, sir — though of course — 
But what I was going to say was, sir, that Mr. ’Enry 


404 


SIR ANTHONV'S SECRET. 


will want somebody to wait on him. I don’t see how 
you’re to manage without some one now that old Mrs. 
Terry’s gone; and if you didn’t mind engaging me, 
sir—” 

“I should be very glad, James,” said Philip — for he 
knew that the man was a clever and faithful servant in 
his way — “ but, you see. I’m not a rich man, and am 
only going into lodgings, so I’m afraid I could not afford 
to have an experienced man like yourself, and you also 
would not be very comfortable.” 

Curiously enough, James stood his ground. “I can 
make myself comfortable in most places, sir. And if 
you’ll excuse me mentioning it, Tm not at all particular 
about wages, for the present. I feel to want a nice 
quiet place where I could have a rest. Sir Anthony 
wasn’t always very easy to please, you know, sir, and I 
would like a young gentleman like Sir — Mr. — ’Enry to 
wait on for a bit. And I shouldn’t be above doing a 
hand’s turn about the house to help the maids, under 
those circumstances, and I can turn my hand to most 
things when I try.” 

Philip meditated .for a moment. “ I’ll speak to Mr. 
Henry and see what he says, James. But I don’t quite 
see why you want to come to us. ” 

“Well, sir, if I may speak straight out,” said James, 
with the flicker of a smile on his smooth, inexpressive 
countenance, “ I think it would be rather to my advan- 
tage to come, because I fancy my lady isn’t going to 
give me a character.” 

“ Eh? Why not?” 

“There’s been a bit of ill-feeling in the servants’ 
hall,” James explained, “respecting the way things has 
turned out with respect to Mr. ’Enry. Some of us think 


TOO late! 


405 


that Mr. ’Enry would die sooner than tell a lie, sir — he’s 
a real gentleman, is Mr. ’Enry — and that he told the 
story as he heard it from Sir Anthony ; and some of us 
think the contrary ; but the long and short of it is, sir, 
that those as believe in Sir 'Enry has got to go without 
a character, because my lady calls it impudence in us, 
sir, to have an opinion on the subject.” 

“ I see. That’ll do, James. I’ll talk to Mr. Henry,” 
said Philip, wishing to cut the conversation short. And 
James retired with his usual respectful bend of the head 
and shoulders. He was really a very accomplished 
“gentleman’s gentleman,” and had some knowledge of 
nursing too. He would be invaluable for Henry; but 
what made Philip hesitate was not so much the payment 
that the man’s services were worth, but a suspicion that 
he had some undercurrent of motives that did not ap- 
pear on the surface. The reason that he gave for wish- 
ing to accompany Henry to London did not seem quite 
sufficient. In spite of his denial, he was inclined to 
suspect the man of knowing more of Sir Anthony’s 
affairs than he chose to allow. Perhaps he had some 
reason for supposing Henry to be the legal heir, and 
hence his desire to remain with him. But on second 
thoughts, Philip cast this idea from him, and blamed 
himself for want of charity. Why should he suppose 
that poor James had not a sincere liking for Mr. Henry, 
and a desire, as he said, to take a quiet place for a time 
at the cessation of his weary years of attendance on Sir 
Anthony? 

Henry was pleased at the proposition, and, on further 
inquiry, James’ demands proved to be so very moder- 
ate, that he was accepted as an attendant on the invalid 
and general helper to the other servants of the house. 


4o6 


SIR ANtHONY’s SECRET. 


This was great condescension on James’ part, and some- 
what inexplicable to his fellows at Kesterton Park ; but 
he vouchsafed no explanation, and simply remarked that 
he wanted a change, and he didn’t mean to over-fatigue 
himself. 

There was only one day for Philip in which to make 
arrangements, and for the present he meant to content 
himself with settling Elfrida and Henry in the apart- 
ments which he often occupied during his visits to town, 
while he took up his abode at a hotel in the vicinity. 
He had written to the landlady of the rooms and received 
a favorable response, therefore he was not obliged to go 
up to London for that one day. And^ indeed, he had 
enough to do during those few hours to be glad that he 
need not leave Kesterton sooner. There were some ac- 
counts to be gone into, papers to be given up, packing 
to be done ; he was overwhelmed with work, and had 
scarcely time to see Elfrida and Henry from morning 
to night. He knew that Elfrida was almost as busy as 
he was himself, for she had Henry’s affairs to look after 
as well as her own ; and he was rather glad to think of 
her being well occupied. It would prevent her from 
brooding over the sadness of her situation. 

In the course of the day, Philip met Lord Beaulieu. 
He would have preferred to avoid him, but there was no 
possibility of doing so, for the young man had espied 
him from afar in the streets of Southborough, whither 
Philip had gone to transact business at his banker’s, 
and bore down upon him with infinite resolution. 

Philip had no mind for a scene in public, and there- 
fore, although he was very bitter against Lord Beau- 
lieu, he raised his hat slightly in response to the younger 
man’s eager greeting, but managed to look unconscious 


TOO late! 


407 


of the proffered hand. He thought this coldness of 
manner might suffice as a hint, but Beaulieu was blind 
to hints, and only said in the bluntest possible way: 

“ Anything the matter?” 

“Only,” said Philip stiffly, “that if I were Miss 
Paston’s father or brother, I should feel justified — ” 

“Oh, good Lord, Winyates, don’t go on!” said the 
young man, his fair face assuming an almost purple 
hue. “ I was going to write to Miss Paston this very 
day — I was, indeed! Lady Kesterton said she would 
talk to her — make her understand, you know!” 

“ It hardly needed Lady Kesterton’s studied insults 
to make her understand that you were acting like a 
cowardly cur,” said Philip, who was at a white heat of 
rage, and did not care in the least whether Beaulieu 
tried to knock him down or not. He quite expected to 
be struck the moment the words were out of his mouth. 
But Lionel, although he turned pale with anger, only 
fell back a step or two, lifted his hat politely, and 
allowed Philip to pass on. 

But the words had roused a storm of feeling in the 
young man’s breast — feelings which he did not care to 
analyze too closely, but which impelled him to sudden 
and reckless action of a kind which Philip would not 
have thought him capable of. He had his horse in 
town ; he mounted it at once and rode off to Kesterton 
Park, with the fixed intention of laying himself, his 
title, and his fortune at Elfrida’s feet. This time he 
would see her, he said to himself ; this time he would 
not be put off by an old woman who had very likely told 
him a pack of lies for her own advantage. It will be 
seen that Lord Beaulieu was experiencing a reaction of 
feeling, such as often occurs after some great decision 


4o8 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


has been taken. And it was with this reaction strong 
upon him that he pealed at the heavy front-door bell, 
and asked in a determined voice to see Miss Paston “ at 
once.” 

He was conducted to a small drawing-room and left 
there, while the footman, inwardly on the tip-toe of ex- 
pectation, went off to find Elfrida, who was just then 
packing a box, and was extremely tired, sad-hearted, 
and dusty. She received the announcement of Lord 
Beaulieu’s visit with a feeling of mingled astonishment 
and anger. Indeed, she was almost inclined to send 
down a message to the effect that she was too busy to 
see him, but a moment’s reflection told her that this 
would not be a wise thing to do. She stood silent for 
a minute or two, then instinctively smoothed back her 
hair and shook the dust from her dress. She was wear- 
ing an apron, with a bib, and her hands were encased 
in gloves, for she had been handling dusty books and 
boxes. The gloves she removed, but the apron she 
kept. Lord Beaulieu might see that she was busy, for 
all she cared— there was no need to make herself look 
pretty for him now. 

She went slowly and quietly down to the blue (Jraw- 
ing-room, where Beaulieu was awaiting her. The 
young man Was looking very nervous, and stood flecking 
his boots impatiently with a riding- whip, which he 
threw away from him as she came in, and advanced 
toward her with both hands outstretched. Elfrida 
stood still and looked at him — but she kept her hands 
in the pockets of her apron. 

'‘Elfrida! Won’t you even shake hands with me?” 
said Beaulieu, in tones at once piteous and reproachful. 

She still did not speak for a minute or two, and he 


TOO late! 


409 


had leisure to contrast her present appearance with the 
one which she had usually worn for him. Usually she 
had been bright, sparkling, full of life and color; now 
she was pale, grave^ silent, but very dignified. Even 
her plain black frock, partly covered with the big apron 
that looked so incongruous in Lady Kesterton’s pretty 
drawing-room, did not detract from the stately grace of 
her bearing. As Beaulieu looked at her, he swore in 
his heart that whether she was a dairy-maid’s daughter 
or not she had the manners and appearance of a queen. 

“ Excuse me,” she said at last, as simply as if she were 
saying the most ordinary thing in the world, “but I do 
not care to shake hands with people who despise me. ” 

“ Elfrida, how can you say that? You know that 
I don’t despise you. ” 

“ I know nothing of the kind. Lord Beaulieu. I un- 
derstand you told Lady Kesterton yesterday — ” 

“ Never mind what I told Lady Kesterton yesterday!” 
he cried, interrupting her recklessly. “ I was mad yes- 
terday — I did not know what I was saying. To-day I 
have come to ask you — to ask you again — to be my 
wife.” 

“What has happened between yesterday and to-day,” 
said Elfrida, with a slight curl of her lip, “ to make me 
worthy of this honor, when I was not worthy yesterday?” 

“ Oh, Elfrida, will you not forgive me? I was blind — 
I was overmastered : I did not know what was for my 
true happiness — but I know it now. ” 

“Overmastered! And you might be overmastered 
again!” said Elfrida scornfully. “ It is too late. Lord 
Beaulieu. If you had not the courage and strength to be 
true to me yesterday, you might not have it to-morrow. 
Besides, I do not choose to marry a man who feels his 


SIR ANTHONY^S SECRET. 


416 

marriage with me to be a misalliance — a disgrace. I may 
be of lowly origin enough ; but I am too proud for that. ” 

“ Any man might be proud to call you his wife, ” said 
Lord Beaulieu. “ Elfie, believe me, it was only a mo- 
ment’s hesitation — I only took time for thought. I love 
you with my whole heart and soul, and you love me 
too. You won’t refuse me now? — surely that is too 
great a punishment for so small a fault. ” 

“There is no question of punishment in the matter,” 
she said, turning away from him. “ It is just the neces- 
sary consequence of what has gone before. You could 
not marry me without feeling ashamed. Lord Beaulieu, 
and I do not wish to be the wife of a man who is ashamed 
of me. I don’t blame you one bit — I think you are quite 
right : you ought to marry somebody in your own posi- 
tion — some one like — like Lady Betty, you know, whom 
everybody knows about ; but you ought not to marry 
me.” 

“ And why not?” said Beaulieu, waxing hot on his own 
side as soon as he met with opposition. “ Why ought 
I not? Simply because of the foolish prejudices of the 
world. My darling, we will disregard those prejudices ; 
we will live our lives in our own way. I am account- 
able to no one ; I will marry whom I choose. Elfie, you 
shall not say no ; you know you are mine, you belong to 
me and me only, you cannot throw me over now!” 

He had come closer to her and taken her hand in his 
as he spoke ; she was obliged to turn her face to him, 
and he saw that it was white and quivering, and that 
the tears were in her eyes. 

“Oh, Lord Beaulieu,” she said, “ I would never have 
thrown you over, as you call it, if you had not thrown 
me over first!” 


TOO LATE I 


41I 

“ First! What do you mean, my darling? You will 
forgive me, will you not, and let me make you happy? 
Elfie, my own, my sweet, why do you cry? You are 
mine, dearest, and we will be married at once — at once, 
do you hear?” 

She shook her head. “ It is best not,” she said hur- 
riedly; “ and besides — it is too late!” 

“ Too late! What on earth do you mean?” 

There was a touch of roughness, of fierceness, in his 
voice, which put Elfrida on her mettle. She took her 
hand away from him, and drew herself up to her full 
height. 

“ I mean this, ” she said : “ that when your lordship 
was alarmed at the prospect of marrying a girl with a 
history like mine, when you rode away yesterday with- 
out trying to see me, and let me learn your change of 
mind through the harsh and insulting words of a woman 
who has always hated me, even then there was one man 
whose tenderness did not fail, who was true to me in 
spite of poverty and disgrace, and who took that moment 
of my deepest humiliation to tell me of his love and ask 
me to be his wife. And although I do not love him as 
he deserves to be loved, yet I was so grateful to him for 
his goodness to me that I did not refuse the shelter that 
he has offered, and I mean to be true to him, just as he 
has been true to me.” 

“ So it is Philip Winyates, is it? ”said Lord Beaulieu 
slowly. 

“Yes, it is Philip Winyates.” 

“Although you love me?” 

“ I did love you once,” said Elfrida, raising her eyes 
:,iid looking at him steadily, “but I think you killed my 
love when you went away yesterday without a word,” 


412 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“It was easily killed!” said the young man, with a 
bitter laugh. Then he picked up his hat and riding- 
whip. “ There is nothing for me to do but to go, then, 
I suppose!” he said, looking a little pale about the lips. 
“ I have had my last word?” 

“The very last!” said Elfrida unflinchingly. 

“I did not know you were so hard,” he said. “I 
thought you would have forgiven — when a fellow said 
he was sorry, and all that sort of thing, you know! 
Won’t you, Elfrida?” 

^‘Oh, what is the use?’^ she saidj with a little sob. 

It isn’t that I want to be hard — I want to feel just 
the same to you; but I can’t— I can’t! You w-ere not 
true to me: you left me to fight for myself just when I 
wanted help ; and I should never be able to trust you 
again. ” 

“That settles it!” said Lord Beaulieu. “I certainly 
won’t marry a woman who cannot trust me. Well, 
good-by, Elfrida. This is the end, then — but I hope 
you will think as kindly of me as you can. ” 

He looked so wistful and so boyish that for a moment 
Elfrida’s heart almost relented to him. But she knew 
that she was right to let him go. Even his return 
counted more as another act of weakness than as a 
joy of her heart. She spoke quite truly when she 
said that she would never be able to trust him again. 
For she was as proud in her way as he was ; and the 
sting of his contempt had been inexpressibly bitter to 
her. 

They parted with a quiet shake of the hands and Lord 
Beaulieu went away to mourn over the inevitable. 
Perhaps he was not likely to mourn forever. He felt 


TOO LATE? 


413 


that he had been worldly-minded and cowardly, and 
that he had been punished for his littleness ; but again 
he felt that perhaps Elfrida’s decision was for the 
best. He loved her, but — after all — a man had a duty 
to his family, and could not always marry to please 
himself. 

Elfrida had been wiser than she knew. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 


IN LONDON LODGINGS. 

A DOUBLE drawing-room in a West Central square is 
not usually considered a very lively place, but Philip 
had nevertheless done wisely in establishing the young 
Pastons in a house which he knew to be clean and com- 
fortable in spite of its outside dinginess. The landlady, 
Mrs. Graves, was not so funereal as her name. The 
room was furnished with heavy mahogany chairs and 
table, an uncomfortable sofa, a flowery Brussels carpet, 
half a dozen engravings, and some wax flowers. 
Elfrida’s first feeling, on seeing her new surroundings, 
was one of unmitigated horror : their ugliness impressed 
her painfully, and she was sympathetically afraid of 
the depressing effect that might be produced upon 
Henry. But to her surprise, Henry did not seem de- 
pressed at all. On the contrary, he was delighted. 

“ This is what I have read about in novels,” he said. 
“ This is -the typical British house, with furniture dating 
from 1851, the very lowest period of art! Oh, I know 
all about it from the literature of the day, but I have 
never seen it before, and I never thought it could be so 
bad as this!” 

He was looking about him, on the day of their arrival, 
with amused, curious, interested eyes. 

“You must remember that I have never seen any 
house but Kesterton Park since I was a bab^,” he went 

414 


IN LONDON LODGINGS. 


415 


on. “ Everythingf is so new to me — so typical. A Lon- 
don square, a London lodging-house, a London landlady ! 
I feel as if I were in one of Thackeray’s novels.” 

“ But it is all so ugly!” said Elfrida, smiling in spite 
of herself. 

“ Is it? Well, I suppose it is. But it’s new, Elfie, 
and you forget how little change I have ever had.” 

“ I wish it were a pleasanter kind of change,” said his 
sister mournfully. She stooped down to kiss him, but 
the tears were in her eyes. 

It was their first evening in Taviton Square, and it 
was turning out in an unexpected way. Elfrida had 
thought that both she and Henry would be very miser- 
able — Henry, perhaps, more than herself. She had 
looked to find him tired, exhausted, dejected by the 
change in his circumstances, and lo and behold! he 
was as cheery and blithe as if he had never known care 
or sorrow in his life. He was unfeignedly interested 
in his new home, sincerely delighted with the novel 
surroundings, even when they were of the commonest ; 
and he succeeded in making Elfrida laugh heartily more 
than once, even when she said to herself that she had 
no business to be light-hearted. When Philip came in, 
after a visit to his hotel, he was amazed- to find, instead 
of the gloom and silence that he had vaguely anticipated, 
an atmosphere of smiles and innocent jokes and general 
gayety of heart. 

That all this had been a little forced, however, was 
evident to him from the sigh with which Henry at length 
laid his head upon his pillow when Philip had helped 
James to get him to bed. The lad was so unselfish that 
he had kept up a pretext of good spirits throughout the 
evening for his companion’s sake; but he was glad 


4i6 sir Anthony’s secret. 

enough to rest quietly when he could do so without be- 
ing watched. All this Philip saw and appreciated, and 
he went back to the front drawing-room (Henry used 
the back drawing-room as his sleeping apartment) with 
a feeling of positive gratitude to the boy who could sacri- 
fice himself so readily to the cornfort of other people. 
The drawing-room seemed quite desolate without him. 
Elfrida had drawn a stool up to the fire, and was sitting 
with her elbows on her knees and gazing sadly into the 
glowing embers. She had a peacock-feather fan in her 
hand, and had been using it throughout the evening 
either to screen her face from the heat of the fire, or sim- 
ply to cover her lips so that the expression upon them 
should not be too closely remarked by her observers. 
She scarcely stirred when Philip came in, but she flung 
him a glance which he interpreted as an invitation to sit 
near her. Accordingly, he drew a chair forward and 
seated himself almost at her side. 

Her face had grown strangely sad during those few 
minutes during which she had sat alone. Philip wished 
that he was able to comfort her as he would have liked 
to do. He had the right — a certain kind of right— to 
kiss her, to put his arm round her and hold her hand in 
his; but he could not avail himself of his right with 
any other feeling than that of fear — fear lest he should 
frighten her, disgust her, repel her love before he had 
won it. This was the feeling that kept him reticent 
and even cool in manner when his heart was aching to 
take her to him and comfort her for all that she had 
lost. 

“ I hope you will like this place better by and by,’' he 
began. 

Elfrida flushed suddenly, as if he had reproached her. 


IN LONDON LODGINGS. 


417 


“ I do like it — I think it is all very nice. It’s much 
cleaner than I expected — for London.” 

“ You will find Mrs. Graves honest and obliging. I 
think she will make you comfortable. She was always 
good to me when I was here before.” 

“You have been here often?” said Elfrida, feeling 
that she must say something. 

“ Six or eight times. It was my usual harbor of 
refuge.” 

“ And we have turned you out?” 

“ Only for a time, I hope.” And Philip looked at her 
with a grave smile which made her flush uncomfortably 
as she played with her fan, and said : 

“ I thought you were going to stop at your hotel. You 
told me it would be better so.” 

“Yes, dear, so long as I remain as I am. Elfie, 
would it not be better for us all, better for Henry and 
for me, as well as for yourself, if you and I were mar- 
ried?” 

She started up from her seat almost as though she 
wanted to get away from him. “ Oh, there is plenty of 
time for that,” she said rapidly, in a voice that ought to 
have been careless, and was not. 

“ Why should we wait?” said Philip softly. He rose 
too, and stood before her, but she turned her shoulder 
to him and covered her face with her fan. For a few 
minutes the two stood thus, silent and uneasy, until at 
length, Elfrida, lowering the peacock feathers, said en- 
treatingly, “ If only you wouldn’t talk about it yet!” 

“ How long am I to wait?” he asked. Then, as she 
did not reply: “It would be much better if we were 
here together. It would be easier to look after Henry, 
it would be better for my work. And we have to think 
27 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


418 

how things will look in the eyes of the world, Elfie. 
It would be better for you, from that stand-point, to be 
here as my wife than simply as Henry’s sister. You are 
too young to be left alone. I hate the idea of going 
away from you. ” 

“I am quite well able to take care of myself,” she 
said proudly. 

“ Able, yes ; if you were obliged. But you are not 
obliged; because I am here, waiting, anxious to have 
the right of caring for you, of protecting you. Why 
should that right not be mine at once, Elfie?” 

” At once!” 

”Well,”said Philip quietly, “as soon as we can get 
matters settled. In a fortnight or three weeks, say. 
That would leave you time to unpack and arrange your 
things. I could then come and take up my abode here 
altogether and it would be easier for us all in many 
ways. Otherwise I shall not be able to give you — and 
Henry — the help and care to which he^ at least, has been 
accustomed frorni me. You see, I cannot live here as I 
did at Kesterton — I cannot come and go without remark ; 
and it would not be right. Don’t you see what I mean?” 

“I think Iso — I suppose so,” said Elfrida rather con- 
fusedly. “ But I never thought of it in that way, ” 

He ventured to lay one hand on her slender wrist. 

“You do intend to be true to me, Elfie? You mean 
to be my wife^one day?” he said. 

“ Don’t you trust me?” she asked. 

“Yes, yes, with all my heart and soul. But what is 
the use of making me wait so long? We shall never 
have a happy, comfortable home until you aremy wife. ” 

“You did not say all this when we came away,” she 
said, suddenly breaking into tears. “You have taken 


IN LONDON LODGINGS, 


419 


me unawares; I am like a bird in a net. I — I can’t — I 
haven’t the right to refuse.” 

And then she leaned against the mantel-piece, and 
sobbed helplessly for a minute or two, while Philip, 
bitterly reproaching himself for his precipitancy, vowed 
that he did not mean to press her, that she, and she only, 
should decide, and that he was a brute to have men- 
tioned the matter on this the first day of her arrival in 
tov/n. Elfrida calmed herself under the influence of his 
self-accusation, and was roused at last to contradict his 
statements. 

“ No, Philip, no— ^you are quite right. It is I who 
am wrong. I have not had time fo think pvpr things, 
and at first I did pot see how right you were. I am 
quite ready to do what you want. ” 

“But I want only to make yop happy, dear; and if 
you dislike it so much- — ” 

“ But, indeed, I don’t dislike it in the way you mean,” 
she said, lifting her face and wiping away the tears. 
“It is only that I was unprepared. Now that I think it 
over, I know that you are quite right. You must for- 
give me for crying in this foolish way. It is only that 
I am overdone and tired. I am really quite willing— 
quite — to do as you suggest. I am, indeed!” 

She came up to him and gave him both her hands, look- 
ing into his eyes with so sweet and supplicating an ex- 
pression that he was irresistibly impelled to kiss the 
beautiful face upturned to his own, She blushed deeply, 
but she did not seem to resent the kiss. 

“ Elfie, my darling, will you really be my wife soon?” 

“As soon as you please, Philip,” she answered 
bravely. 

“ Even if I sajd— ” 


420 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“Anytime yon like,” she said. “It is only right; 
and besides, you have been so good, so noble ; I know 
I ought to be only too glad to do just what you wish.” 

“Ah, but that is not what I want you to feel!” cried 
Philip vehemently. “ I only ask for a little love. ” 

“ If you will be content with my liking and my trust,” 
she said rather tremulously, “perhaps— by and by — ” 
And there she stopped. 

“By and by!” he said, sadly. “Ah, yes, by and by. 
That is a vague word, Elfie. But I will try to be con- 
tent. After all,” brightening up a little as he spoke, 
^‘have I not won a great deal more than I deserve?” 

“ No,” she said, with sudden decision, “not more than 
you deserve, Philip. You are the truest, noblest, the 
best of men, and I can never be too grateful to you for 
what you have done for Henry and me.” 

“ I could wish that I had done nothing,” he said smil- 
ing tenderly, “ and indeed it is next to nothing that I 
have done, when I hear you talking in this way. But 
now I must go — Mrs. Graves will wonder why I stay so 
long ; I shall have to go and explain to the good old soul 
that you are to be my wife some day. Some day, Elfie ! 
I won’t hurry you, my darling; but let it be soon.” 

And soon indeed it was. Elfrida saw clearly enough 
the reasons that there were for hastening the marriage, 
and as she was soberly and seriously resolved to become 
Philip Winyates’ wife she made no further opposition to 
his plans. 

The house in Taviton Square was tolerably spacious, 
and, as it happened, Mrs. Graves had just then no other 
lodgers. She was quite willing to agree to Philip’s 
proposition that he should take her “ dining-room floor ” 
fis well as the drawing-rooms, and in fact become th^ 


IN LONDON LODGINGS. 


421 


possessor of the whole house except that part of it which 
Mrs. Graves wanted for herself and her family. 

It was a melancholy time for Elfrida, though she was 
brave and resolute enough not to show that it was so. 
It was rather dreary work to choose her own wedding- 
dress, simple as it was ; and drearier still to think of the 
happiness it would have been to her to choose it if she 
had been going to wear it for her bridal with the man 
she loved. Of Beaulieu she heard nothing more. 

But, on the day before her quiet wedding, an unex- 
pected pleasure came to the girl. “A lady” was an- 
nounced as a visitor, and before Elfrida could collect 
herself sufficiently to ask the maid the visitor’s name, 
she was overwhelmed by a sudden rush, a vehement 
entrance, a storm of tears and kisses, from Lady Betty 
Stormont. 

“I’m a truant,” Lady Betty confessed. “ I ran away 
from Beatrice while she was shopping in Bond Street, 
and came here in a hansom. I could not rest until I 
had seen you again, my poor Elfie dear.” 

“ But how did you know where we were living?” asked 
Elfrida. 

“ Mr. Winyates wrote to Lady Kesterton, and Lady 
Kesterton sent the letter on to Beatrice,” said Lady 
Betty, with a little blush. “ I made a mental note of 
the address, and vowed that I would come. Is it really 
true, Elfie? Are you to be married to-morrow?” 

“ Yes,” said Elfrida, gravely. “ To-morrow is the day.” 

“ You say it very solemnly ! Are you happy, dear?” 
said Betty, scanning her friend’s face with eager, anx- 
ious eyes. “ Do you love him?” 

Elfrida tried to smile and tried to speak, but both 
attempts were something of a failure. 


422 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ Elfie — Elfie — do you care for Lionel still?” 

The question came in a whisper, and Elfrida felt the 
girl’s hand tremble in her own. She gathered up all 
her courage to reply. 

“ Not as I once did, dear,” she answered. “ I would 
not marry Lord Beaulieu now for anything the world 
could give me. Don’t ask me any more.” 

“ One thing — only one thing, Elfrida. Did he ask you 
to marry him — after — after Sir Anthon5^’s death?” 

“ Why do you ask, Betty dear?” 

“ Because Lady Kesterton and Beatrice have been 
telling me that he backed out of it,” cried Betty 
warmly, “ and if he did I’ll never speak to him again! 
They tell me that Lady Kesterton got hold of him and 
persuaded him to go out of the house without seeing 
you — just leaving a horrid message, as if you were be- 
low his notice. They seemed to think he had done a 
very fine thing, but I told them I didn’t believe it was 
true, and that if it were true nothing would induce me 
to — to — 

She suddenly faltered and broke down, hiding her 
head upon Elfrida’s breast. 

“To marry him, dear?” said Elfrida, after a little 
pause. 

“Yes,' to marry him,” Lady Betty answered, with a 
sob. “ He has asked me, but I refused.” 

There was a still longer pause. Elfrida was feeling 
the pain that came from knowing that the man she 
loved could so easily forget her. With a word, too, she 
might punish him; she could spoil his chances with 
Lady Betty if she chose. But she was generous, 

“ There is no reason why you should not accept him,” 
she said quietl}^ “ He behaved quite honorably to 
me. Listen: Lady Kesterton told you what she knew, 
but she did not know everything. Lord Beaulieu did 
go away after seeing her, without having an inter- 
view with me, because he wanted to think the matter 
over; and that was very wise of him, you know; but he 
came back next day and asked me to marry him, And 
I — I said no,” 


LAI)Y KESTEkTON’s DIAMONDS. 42 ^ 

Lady Betty stirred a little, and looked her friend in 
the face. 

“ But yon loved him all the time?” she said. 

“ Too well,” said Elfrida, quivering, “to let him spoil 
his life for me^ Besides — no, I did not love him in the 
right way. I am going to marry Philip, and I hope 
that one ^2iy you will be Lord Beaulieu’s wife.” 

And the look she bent upon Lady Betty was so 
serene in its steadfast resolution that the girl, though 
still puzzled, was secretly reassured. But she shook 
her head and declared gravely that nothing would 
induce her to accept Beaulieu — 7iow, 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

LADY KESTERTON’s DIAMONDS. 

Elfrida Was married to Philip Winyates about the 
middle of January, and settled down very quietly to 
her life with him in Taviton Square. Her marriage 
seemed, after all, to make very little difference in her 
life. She devoted herself more completely than ever 
to Henry; and she saw comparatively little of her hus- 
band. Philip had had no difficulty in getting work to 
do, and the consequence was that he was busy — morn- 
ing, noon, and night. Henry sometimes complained 
that they saw less of him than in the old days at Kes- 
terton Park, but Elfrida uttered no word of complaint. 
It was when Philip came near that her eye grew 
troubled and that her voice failed her. In his presence 
she became curiously stiff and unresponsive; her old 
liking for him had disappeared, and was replaced by 
something very like timidity and coldness. She was 
exceedingly submissive, even in the smallest things; 
she sedulously considered his comfort and his welfare ; 
but she had lost her old vivacity, and this very submis- 
siveness did not seem natural to her character. 

Philip used in these days to watch her, curiously and 
sadly, with the feeling at his heart that, after all, he 
had perhaps committed a fatal error. Not that he loved 


424 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

her less, but that he began to believe she would nevei* 
love him more. He had fancied that marriage would 
fan the flicker of “ liking” into the flame of “ love,” and 
he was saddened and disappointed to find that her love 
was so hard to win. He felt, too, that he was at a dis- 
advantage. He was obliged to be busy in order to earn 
money for his household, which was a somewhat expen- 
sive one ; and he could not give her the personal care 
and companionship which he felt she required. Henry 
was a great deal more to her than he could ever be. 
He knew that she had married him for Henry’s sake, 
and he could- not complain if she continued to give 
Henry the attention and the devotion which she had 
always lavished upon him. He could not complain, 
and yet he felt it hard that her voice should be silenced 
when he — her husband — came into the room, although 
she had been laughing while his hand was on the door, 
that her caresses should be showered upon her brother 
wholesale, but that not one little kiss should ever be 
reserved for him. 

Lady Betty came to the house again, shortly after 
Elfrida’s marriage, and announced that this time she 
had been allowed to call on her. 

Elfrida interrupted some trivial chatter of the girl 
with the rather irrelevant question : 

“ And when are you to be married, dear?” 

“Married!” said Lady Betty, flushing, as was her 
wont, a delicate pink. “ Why, there is no thought of 
such a thing!” 

“ Does not Lord Beaulieu think of it?” 

The color became hotter in the girl’s soft cheeks. “ I 
don’t know what he thinks. I can’t believe that he 
knows his own mind. And sooner than marry him and 
feel afterwards that he regretted the marriage, I think, 
Elfie, that I would rather drown myself . ” 

“ But he has asked you — again?” 

“Oh, yes,” rather pettishly, “he goes on asking me 
now. And I always say no.” 

“ Do you mean to say no forever?” 

Lady Betty’s eyes grew grave and troubled. “ Elfie, 


LADY KESTERTON’s DIAMONDS. 425 

I know he cared for — for some one else not so very long 
ago. Perhaps he cares for her still. How can I be 
sure that he does not? It will take a long time for me 
to learn to trust him. ” 

“ He is an honorable man; he would not say what he 
did not think,” said Elfrida, in low, suppressed tones. 

“ Yes, but he might be mistaken as to what he 
thought. He must be quite sure — and I must be quite 
sure too.” 

“I think it will come right in time,” said Elfrida, 
soberly. 

“I don’t know. But let me see Henry, won’t you? 
I only spoke to him for a minute last time, and I want 
to see him again. ” 

And they went upstairs to Henry, their “private” 
talk having taken place in the dining-room. 

Lady Betty gave an odd little start when her eye fell 
upon Henry’s face. The start perplexed Elfrida, and 
made her look at Henry more narrowly. • He did not 
look quite so well as usual, perhaps ; but then the cold 
weather had tried him. She would ask Lady Betty 
what had struck her in Henry’s appearance when they 
went downstairs. 

She did ask, and Lady Betty gave her an evasive 
answer. 

“ It seemed so queer to see him in a London room, 
you know,” she said explanatorily. “I had seen him 
only at Kesterton, and of course he looks different. ” 

“ Not worse?” breathed Elfrida. 

“ Oh, no, dear! Only a little thinner than he used to 
be, isn’t he? I dare say it is just the London darkness 
that makes a little difference; that is all.” 

But when Lady Betty was gone, Elfrida went back 
to her brother with a new fear at her heart. Was it 
possible that this London life was too trying for his 
strength, that the murky atmosphere, the ceaseless fogs 
of a peculiarly disagreeable winter, were more than he 
could bear? She watched him anxiously, and noted, 
with a heart-breaking sensation of pain, that his hands 
and face were certainly thinner and whiter than they 


426 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


had been ; that his weakness seemed greater ; and that 
his eyes were bright with fever rather than with the old 
lightness of heart. She looked at him so intently that 
at last he observed the gaze, and asked her, with a 
smile, what was the matter. 

“ Nothing, ” she said, a little eonsciously. Then, after 
a pause: “Lady Betty was asking whether this life 
agreed with you, and I was wondering whether it did. ” 

“ Why not?” said her brother quietly. “ Do I look 
worse than I did?” 

“ Oh, no, no, Hal, dear ; you are just the same as ever !” 

“ I am not so sure of that,” he answered. “ I remem- 
ber, now — Lady Betty looked startled ; and I fancy, Elfie, 
that I am not quite as strong as I was, That may be 
the solution of the problem for me, ” 

“ The solution — what do you mean, Harry?” 

“ I mean that if I were to die, Elfie, there would be 
no further perplexity about the title, You, dear, would 
have to try to prove Sir Anthony’s story for your own 
sake; and for mine, too; but little Gerald could reign 
undisturbed. ” 

“Dear Hal, please don’t talk in that way! You are 
no worse — no worse at all ! and as for me — I should not 
care one bit about proving the story if you were not 
here to profit by it. ” 

“ But that would be wrong, Elfie — wrong to our 
mother’s memory, and to our father’s, too; and wrong 
to yourself. Promise me, dear, that — even if I die — 
you will go on seeking the truth and will not shrink 
from making it manifest to the world if it should be in 
your power ever to do so.” 

And Elfrida promised. But in her heart she did not 
believe that the story would ever be proved true. 

Philip had .spared no pains. He had advertised for 
a record of the marriage in every important daily paper 
in England ; he had sent a circular to every clergyman 
in every parish, asking each to search the register for 
information; but he had not met with any success at 
all. No one seemed to have heard either of Anthony 
Kesterton or of Mary Derrick. It occurred to him with 


LADY KESTERTOn’s DIAMONDS. 427 

great force that if Sir Anthony had been married at all, 
he had perhaps given a false name. At any rate, no in- 
formation about the marriage could be obtained ; and 
Philip began to wonder seriously whether the story had 
been either a bad joke on Sir Anthony’s part, or a 
delusion on that of Henry. He could not afford to pay 
a private agent to search parish registers for him, and 
no firm of lawyers would take the matter up; the story 
was too vague, too unlikely, to be believed. Most of 
the men consulted by Philip were disposed to doubt the 
good faith or the sanity of Henry Paston. 

Meanwhile, it was no fancy merely of Lady Betty 
that Henry’s strength was declining. The boy was 
growing weaker day by day. Philip knew it, the doctor 
knew it, Henry knew it hiniself as well as they ; it was 
only Elfrida who absolutely refused to face the truth. 

He seldom now mentioned the story that Sir Anthony 
had told him, but once or twice he sighed out a wish 
that he could see Lady Kesterton again. What pity and 
good feeling had failed to bring about at Kesterton was 
brought about in London through mingled influences of 
revenge and greed. 

Eva Kesterton was in town, spending a few days with 
Lady Beltane. And from Lady Beltane’s house she sent 
Philip an angry and threatening letter respecting some 
diamond ornaments which had long been heirlooms in 
the Kesterton family. She had been in the habit of 
wearing them on great occasions ; and had donned them 
(as she thought) on the night of the great ball ; but she 
had now discovered — partly from an unpaid account sent 
in from a great jeweller’s, and partly because her sus- 
picions as to the genuineness of the stones had been 
aroused — that Sir Anthony had been allowing her to wear 
carefully-fashioned paste instead of genuine diamonds ; 
and that the heirlooms themselves had disappeared. 
Furthermore, it was remembered that Elfrida Paston 
had worn diamond ornaments at the fancy ball, and Lady 
Kesterton wrote to know whether these diamonds were 
not the real diamonds, and to request that they might 


428 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


be returned at once, “ unless Mrs. Winyates desired to be 
prosecuted for the robbery. ” 

“It is the most insulting letter I ever read,” said 
Philip, throwing it down angrily, when he had shown it 
to Henry and his wife. “ What about the ornaments, 
Elbe? What does she mean?” 

“ Of course she means the ornaments that Sir Anthoii}" 
gave me on the night of the ball,” said Elfrida. “I 
thought that they were imitation ; and I remember I 
tossed them into a jewel-box that night without thinking 
much about them. I have never looked at them, or 
thought of them, since.” 

“ Let us hope they are safe,” said Philip. “ WiP you 
look for them, dear, and see whether they are the orna- 
ments she describes?” 

Elfrida did his bidding, and presently returned with 
the pins and brooches with which Sir Anthony had 
chosen to decorate her on the night of the ball. Philip 
identified them, one by one, as those which Lady Kes- 
terton had indicated in her letter. He then wrote to 
Lady Kesterton herself, requesting her either to send 
for the jewels or to appoint an hour at which he himself 
should leave them with her at Lady Beltane’s house. 

No answer was returned, and Philip therefore went 
out as usual next morning, advising Elfrida not to trust 
the ornaments to the hands of any unauthorized bearer, 
and even to go herself, if necessary, to convey the dia- 
monds to Lady Kesterton in the course of the day. 

Elfrida did not think it necessary, however, to stay 
in-doors both morning and afternoon in case Lady Kes- 
terton should send for the diamonds. No letter or mes- 
sage came, and at 3 o’clock, therefore, she went out 
for her customary walk, while Henry rested and some- 
times slumbered a little under the guardianship of 
James. And thus it was that when Lady Kesterton 
herself, grown bold with impunity and pride and spite, 
knocked at the door and asked for Mr. or Mrs. Winyates, 
she was taken straight up to the drawing-room and 
ushered into the presence of Henry Paston and his 
attendant. And then she realized that she had been 


LADY KESTERTON’s DIAMONDS. 429 

very foolish to come. But she had wanted the opportu- 
nity of insulting and threatening — perhaps even of 
frightening — Elfrida; and she had been unable to resist 
that temptation to wound the feelings of the girl whom 
she had already wronged as much as it lay in her power 
to wrong. 

She looked around her, saw no Elfrida and no 
Philip — only Henry, whose thin white face and great 
hollow eyes looked at her in an intense stillness from 
the couch whereon he lay. At the sight she faltered 
and drew back. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon!” she murmured, half against 
her will. “ I came here by mistake. I wanted to see 
your sister — ” 

“I am glad you have come. Lady Kesterton,” said 
Henry, clearly and quietly. “ I have been wanting to 
see you for some time. Close the door, James.” 

Lady Kesterton turned sharply. “ Excuse me, I can’t 
stay, ” she said dryly. “ Tell your sister to send me the 
ornaments that she took from my house at once. Open 
the door, please.” 

The last remark was addressed to James, whose hand 
was on the door knob. But in obedience to a sign from 
Henry he went out. 

“ Now that you are here. Lady Kesterton, I beg that 
you will stay for a few minutes, ” said the boy. “ Elfrida 
will be in presently, and then she will give you the orna- 
ments that she had accidentally taken away with her. 
Pray sit down.” 

“ Sit down ! As if I would sit down here ! Excuse 
me, I am not so very anxious to wait for your sister; 
you will no doubt give her my message. ” 

“ I will give her no message,” said Henry, his voice 
suddenly growing stronger and deeper from his emotion, 
“ unless you stay with me for five or ten minutes and 
listen to what I have to say. I don’t think you need be 
afraid of me,” he said, in a softer tone, “ when you look 
at me. Don’t you see that I haven’t long to live?” 

Lady Kesterton ’s cold eyes rested on him for a mo- 


43 ° 


SIR Anthony’s SECREt. 


ment, wavered, then fell. But she moved, as if instinc- 
tively, to the door. 

“James is there,” said Henry, very quietly. “He 
knows what I want — that I have been wishing very 
much to speak to you. I doubt a little — whether he 
will let you out unless I give the word.” 

“ What insolence is this?” said Lady Kesterton, turning 
rather pale as she spoke. “ You will let me go when 
and how I please. So you talk over your affairs with 
the servants, do you? It is worthy of^your father’s — ” 

“ My father’s eldest son and heir, if you please,” said 
Henry firmly. “You know as well as I do that that is 
what I am. You cannot look me in the face and deny 
it — although you have done so to the outer world.” 

“I can and I will!” she cried determinedly. “This 
Story is a mere fancy of your deluded brain. I am 
very sorry for your delusion, but I really cannot allow 
it to influence my action. I will bid you good-after- 
noon. ” 

“Stay, Lady Kesterton,” said Henry. “Even if you 
will not acknowledge that you heard aright, do you 
think that the world will support you when it knows that 
there was another listener to that conversation — a listen- 
er who heard the story as I heard it, and is willing to 
swear to that effect?” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

FACE TO FACE. 

Lady Kesterton stood aghast. There was no need 
now to beg her to stay. She sank into the nearest chair, 
and looked at Henry with an expression of utmost dis- 
may. “ What do you mean?” she said almost inaudibly. 

“ I have not a great deal to say,” he answered. “ It 
will be better for you to hear it — I have always felt so. 
But you have always refused to see me — and I could not 
come to see you. ” 

“ There was no use in my seeing you — it could not do 
any one any good. ” 


FACE TO FACE. 


431 


“Perhaps not,” replied Henry, “but it would have 
been a satisfaction to me ; and you owe me some satis- 
faction, Lady Kesterton. I suppose you know that I 
am dying, ” he continued, in the most matter-of-course 
way possible. “ It simplifies matters a good deal, does 
it not?” 

Lady Kesterton’s lips moved, but she made no sound. 

“ Since I have known that I was to die so soon,” the 
boy went on, “ I have thought how much more easily 
things were turning out than we expected. Even if I 
had had the title for a little while, you see, Gerald would 
have succeeded to it by and by. Would it have made 
so much difference to you?” 

“ I don’t know what you mean by talking to me in this 
way, ” said Lady Kesterton. “You have not got the 
title, and so — ” 

“But you know quite well that I ought to have it,” 
said Henry. His tone was wonderfully winning; the 
sweetness of his expressive eyes was almost unearthly. 
Lady Kesterton had a moment of odd, superstitious fear. 
She felt as if she were in the presence of one who could 
read her very heart. 

.“You know quite well,” Henry repeated, “that my 
father and mother were legally married, arid that I am 
Sir Anthony Kesterton’s eldest son. Oh, don’t say — to 
me — that you are ignorant of it ; \^hen you know — you 
remember as well as I what happened on that night — ^ 
the night before Sir Anthony died. You heard his 
story ; you could not possibly misunderstand him. It 
did not injure you, did it — that some one else had been 
his wife before he married you? And even if Gerald 
had not had the title for a year or two, would it have 
mattered so much? It was not possible that my life 
should have been a long one; indeed — as we know 
now — it is going to be very short.” 

“ This is a most extraordinary way of addressing me,” 
said Lady Kesterton, rising to her feet and clutching 
the back of a chair for support. She had resolved to 
brave the matter out iri. the best way she could. “ I 


432 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


should be happy to acknowledge your rights if you had 
any — but — ” 

“ Ah, don’t say that!” said the boy, with an indescrib- 
ably gentle intonation. “ It isn't worth while!” 

“What is not worth while?” said Lady Kesterton, 
bewildered. 

“ It’s not worth while to lie and cheat and lose your 
soul, all for the sake of a title and a fortune for your 
children, is it? Forgive me for saying this; but I am 
dying, you know, and a great deal is forgiven to a dying 
person. Let me tell you just what I mean and what I 
want: then I shall be happy. It is not only the title 
that is in question,” said Henry, “but, I believe, some 
money. There was a certain amount for the eldest son 
and eldest daughter; so that if our legitimacy were 
proved, we should take away what belongs now to 
Gerald and Janey. We don’t want to do that. It is not 
the money we care about; it is our mother’s honor — 
our own name. The title is a matter easily settled — 
it will go to Gerald when I die. So that there is only 
the money. You did not want to despoil Janey, even 
for the sake of saving us from shame.” 

He waited as if for a reply ; but Lady Kesterton was 
speechless still. Presently he went on : 

“It is our name we want, and our mother’s name; 
that is all. Why should you take it away? We do not 
want money. Keep it all, if you like, for your children. 
Elfrida and I will give up all claim to that; but give 
me the name that you have robbed me of, before it is 
too late.” 

Lady Kesterton never knew why she answered in a 
way that might be taken as an acknowledgment of 
guilt. 

“ It is too late now,” she said. 

“Oh, no,” said the boy eagerly, “never too late — ■ 
never too late — so long as we live and can say that we 
are — sorry.” 

“I am not sorry,” said Lady Kesterton thickly, 
“ I have nothing — nothing to be sorry for.” 


FACE TO FACE. 


433 


“ But you will — some day. You will know — some 
day — that there are things for which — I believe — you 
should be sorry. I don’t say all this without meaning. 
I pray night and morning that God will bring you to 
repair the wrong that you are doing — for it is a wrong — • 
and that you will tell the world that I. spoke the truth 
and told Sir Anthony’s story aright.” 

“ So likely,” Lady Kesterton cried out, with a sudden 
wildness, “that I should tell every one that!”* 

“Why not? Would it not be better to tell it now 
than at some future time — on your death-bed, perhaps, 
after a life spoiled by a lie — or just when your children 
are growing up — at tL time when they will be most em- 
bittered against you — ” 

“Oh, hush, say no more! They will never know.” 

“ But they //^qy know ! The story will be proved 
sooner or later. I am sure it will. And there was an- 
other listener. Lady Kesterton, to your husband’s story. 
The man who has just gone out — he heard it all.” 

Lady Kesterton gave a strange kind of gasp, as if, 
for the moment, the attempt to speak choked her. Then 
she broke out fiercely: 

“ He cannot have heard, or he would have spoken at 
the time. Besides — there was nothing to hear. You 
have concocted this between you!” 

Henry looked at her silently for a minute or two. 
Then he said in a slightly deeper tone : 

“ Is it possible that you can see me lying here — dying — 
and still tell me — what is not true?” 

Lady Kesterton began to sob hysterically — but not 
loudly; she had sufficient self-command to prevent her- 
self from being audible outside the door. Henry closed 
his eyes; the interview was becoming almost too much 
for him to bear. 

“ It will be known — it will be known,” he murmured, 
more to himself than to her. “ When it is too late to 
save yourself — it will be known.” 

“ Do you mean to say,” Lady Kesterton asked, with a 
desperate clutch at her vanished dignity, “that this 
man is going to repeat his ridiculous tale?” 

2S 


434 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ Whether he does or not,” said Henry, looking at her 
with dreamy eyes which seemed to see beyond the veil 
of actual fact, “ the truth will some day be made clear. 
I only ask you to save yourself from sorrow.” 

“ This is perfect nonsense !” said Lady Kesterton, who, 
though still agitated, was rapidly recovering her self- 
possession. “ If you have nothing more to say, I will 
go, for really I have no time to listen to any more of 
your ravings. I am sorry, for your own sake, that you 
persist in so foolish an attempt to gain a position that 
does not belong to you. ” 

She never forgot the strange sweetness of the smile 
he turned upon her. He did not attempt to reply to 
her words ; he simply said the one thing that he had 
waited for so long a time to say. 

“ It is for your sake more than mine, ” he said. “ But — 
at any rate — will you remember that I — I forgive you 
all you have done? You may some day be glad to re= 
member that — when I am dead. That is all I wanted 
to tell you.” 

He turned his face a little and closed his eyes. Lady 
Kesterton took the words as a sort of dismissal and 
hurriedly made for the door. She had an additional 
shock in finding that the faithful J ames was sitting out- 
side the door. To think that a man like this might 
perhaps be said to hold her character in the hollow 
of his hand; it was an unspeakable mortification to 
her. But on this occasion, at least, James betrayed 
no consciousness of the position that he held morally 
with regard to her. He escorted her downstairs, opened 
the door, bowed her to her carriage with the air of fin- 
ished flunkeydom that he had ever possessed. To add 
to Lady Kesterton ’s sense of defeat, moreover she came 
face to face with Elfrida on the pavement, and had to 
meet her look of astonishment and scorn, She babbled 
something about the diamonds. 

“You came for them?” said Elfrida calmly. “Oh, 
take them with you, by all means! If you will wait in 
your carriage, or come back with me to the house, I will 
show you the ornaments and give them to you.” 


FACE to FACE. 435 

“I will wait for them here, ” said Lady Kesterton, 
trying to resume the usual calmness of her manner. 
She sat in her carriage, therefore, upright, but pale as 
death, while Elfrida went to fetch the diamonds which 
Lady Kesterton knew well enough she had no right to 
claim; and James, like an incarnate conscience, stood 
at the carriage door. 

Elfrida came downstairs again with her jewel-cases 
and deposited them on the carriage seat. To her sur- 
prise, Lady Kesterton did not touch them or look at 
them. She was gazing before her with a blank fixity 
which somewhat surprised the girl. 

“Will your ladyship not open the cases to be sure that 
all the jewels are there?” she asked, with a strongly 
satirical inflection in her clear young tones. 

Lady Kesterton started, glanced at her and then at the 
cases with something of the same sort of aversion, and 
made a hurried and (to Elfrida) a rather incomprehen- 
sible answer. 

“ No, they will be all right, I am sure. I wish you 
had kept them — they are no use tome.” Then, in a 
louder tone: “Home, Jacobs, at once!” 

The gorgeous J acobs instantly whipped up his horses, 
James shut the door with a bang, and the carriage 
rolled slowly away. 

Meanwhile Elfrida ran upstairs to Henry. She found 
him in an almost insensible state: the interview with 
Lady Kesterton had tried him beyond his strength. 
Ordinary remedies failed for a time to restore him, and 
before night, Philip had thought it well to send for the 
doctor who usually attended him. The doctor looked 
grave, and spoke of the patient’s increasing weakness, 
but did not say anything very definite. 

It was not a time at which anything could be asked 
about Lady Kesterton ’s visit, but Elfrida heard from 
James that she had sat with Henry for fully half an 
hour. She was too much absorbed in care for his phy- 
sical state, however, to care particularly about the 
meaning of this incident. All she gathered from 
Henry was by a murmured word or two when he first 


43^5 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


recovered from his swoon. “ I have done what I 
could,” he said, “ I can do nothing more. Leave her — 
leave her to God ; we need not interfere. ” 

In after days it was of these words that Elfrida 
thought with awe. 


CHAPTER XL. 

“good-by.”' 

It was late in the afternoon of a day -in the following 
week when Lady Betty Stormont made her appearance 
in Taviton Square. She had been summoned by a hasty 
little note from Elfrida. Henry wanted so much to see 
her, she said, before — before the end; and she had 
hastened to obey the summons, although her coming 
had been bitterly opposed by Lady Beltane and Lady 
Kesterton. 

When the first murmurs of dissent arose Lord Beau- 
lieu spoke out strongly, and said that, considering how 
well Lady Betty and Henry had known each other, and 
that the poor fellow seemed to be dying, he thought 
that Lady Betty ought to go. Moreover, he offered to 
accompany lier^ — ^to the door — and to escort her home 
again. Under these circumstances, there was nothing 
for Lady Beltane to do but to signify her consent, and 
Betty was deposited at Mrs. Graves’ house about 6 
o’clock on a bright afternoon in May. 

“Will you come in?” she said to him, as they stood on 
Philip’s door-step. 

He shook his head. “ Winyates would not care to see 
me,” he said, “nor — perhaps — Mrs. Winyates either. 
You will give my love to Henry.” 

“ But what will you do?” 

“ I will wait in the hansom. The man can crawl 
round the square — I have a paper to read.” 

“I had rather you did not wait,” said Lady Betty. 
“ I shall be some time, and I do not like keeping you 
here.” 

“ You don’t suppose I mind waiting iox you^ do you?” 


“ GOOD-BY.” 


437 


asked Beaulieu rather gruffly. But further discussion 
was cut short ; for the door was opened at that moment 
by Philip Winyates himself. 

Beaulieu lifted his hat, and would have-retired, but 
Philip, after a greeting to Lady Betty, would not let 
him depart. He followed him to the bottom of the 
stone steps when he had confided Lady Betty to the care 
of Mrs. Graves, who was laboriously in attendance to 
conduct her to the drawing-room, and addressed a few 
brief words to him. 

“I think I owe you an apology. Lord Beaulieu,” he 
said. “ I hope you will allow me to retract what I said 
to you one day in Southborough, and to express my 
sorrow for the hasty words I used.” 

Beaulieu’s face cleared. “ I don’t think I deserved 
them — quite,” he said, “but let by-gones be by-gones, 
if you will.” He held out his hand rather doubtfully, 
but received so friendly a grasp in return that he could 
no longer doubt of Philip’s cordial intentions. 

“Come in,” said Philip, “and wait — if you can. 
Lady Betty will not be able to stay more than a few 
minutes. ” 

“ How is he?” 

“ Sinking fast. He has not much pain now, but he 
cannot last long. His sister is constantly with him.” 

Beaulieu followed Philip into the dining-room, and 
the two men sat in friendly converse for a little time. 
Then Philip went upstairs and Beaulieu was left alone. 

Lady Betty had been taken first into the drawing- 
room, where Elfrida met her. Lady Betty exclaimed 
at the appearance of her friend. She was white and 
worn, and her eyelids were reddened and heavy, from 
weeping and sleeplessness. “ I have been up for six 
nights — he has been so much worse,” she explained. 
“ And he has asked so often for you that I thought you 
would not mind coming. ” 

“ I should never have forgiven you if you had not 
sent for me,” said Lady Betty, taking Elfrida’s hand 
in hers and softly caressing it. 

“Will you come to him now, then? I don’t know 


438 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


whether he is quite conscious, but he may be so at any 
moment. You must not stay long; I think he only 
wants to say — good-by.” 

“Oh, Elfie, Elfie, dear!” cried Lady Betty, the tears 
falling over her soft, rounded cheeks. But Elfrida did 
not cry ; she looked as if she had wept away all her tears. 

“You must be quiet and calm when you are with 
him,” she said. “ It distresses him to see anybody cry. 
I come away — out of the room — when I can’t keep the 
tears back any longer.” 

“I will be very quiet. I won’t cry,” said Betty. 
“ Will you take me to him now?” And she went, hand 
in hand with Elfrida, to Henry’s room. 

“ Don’t you know me, Henry?” she said. “ I’m 
Betty. ” There was a slight flicker of the blue- veined 
eyelids, then a smile crept to the pale lips. 

“ Is it you. Lady Betty?” he said, opening his eyes 
at last, and looking at her. “ Is it really you?” 

“ Yes,' really me,” said Lady Betty. 

“ I wanted to see you — ^just once. again.” 

“Oh, many times more, I hope,” she said, trying to 
speak cheerfully. 

“No, this is the last time,” he answered. His 
strength was evidently so small that the task of uttering 
these short sentences was irksome and difficult to him, 
and he now relapsed into silence for some minutes. 
Elfrida spoke to him after a while. 

“ Betty is here, dear — do you want to tell her any- 
thing?” 

“ Yes,” he said. Then he opened his great blue eyes 
again, full on Betty’s face. “ I wanted to say to you — 
that I spoke — the truth.” 

“Yes, I know — I understand.” 

“ No, not that — you don’t understand yet — you will 
by and by. ” Then, gathering up his strength for one 
final effort, he added, in a louder tone : “ I want you to 
believe me. If not, why did you come?” 

“ I do believe you, Harry, I do — with all my heart 
and soul,” said Lady Betty, the last shadow of doubt 


^‘good-by.” 439 

dispelled by the accent of sincerity and earnestness 
with which he spoke. 

“ I am glad of that. You will know all about it some 
day. As long as you and Elfie and Philip believe me — 
I don’t much care. And Beaulieu — I don’t know 
whether he does or not.” 

Lady Betty could not answer for Beaulieu. She said 
nothing, and a tear fell from her eyes on Henry’s hand. 
He looked at it and smiled a little. 

” You needn’t cry about me, you know. I’m going 
to be all right — and I’ve had rather a bad time of it here. 
Tell me, are you and Beaulieu going to be married?” 

Even in the presence of approaching death Lady 
Betty could not repress a blush and start. But she 
answered gravely : 

“ I don’t know — yet.” 

“ I hope you will. Give him my love.” 

“ He sent his to you.” 

“ That was good of him — because he doesn’t believe 
in me. But he will — someday.” 

“ Dear Harry, all who love you believe in you!” 

“ Do you love me?” he murmured. “ If I had been 
well and strong — if I had been in my father’s place — I 
have sometimes thought that I should have asked you — 
ah, well, it doesn’t matter now. I wish you could have 
told me you were going to marry Lionel, Lady Betty. 
I should like to think you would be happy.” 

“ I can’t think about it now. I don’t know. He wants 
me to marry him — but — ” 

“Ah, you’ll do it yet,” said the lad, with a glimmer- 
ing smile. Then he lay quiet for a little while, but 
presently, with a touch of more vivacity than he had 
hitherto shown, he said: “ You are not angry with me 
for saying what I did?” 

“Oh, no! How could I be?” 

“Will you kiss me— once^before you go?” 

She stooped and kissed him. Her tears could not be 
checked much longer — she had to rub them from her 
cheeks before she laid her lips on his. 

“Dear Betty!” he murmured. - “Good-by.” Hus 


440 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


eyelids closed and he turned his head aside; uncon- 
sciousness seemed to have stolen over him once more. 

“ I think you had better go, dear, ’’said Elfrida softly. 

And Lady Betty, disengaging her hand gently from 
the thin fingers that she still held, crept away from the 
room and was led by Philip to the dining-room, so that 
she should be suffered to have her cry out in peace. 
Henry was sleeping quietly, she was told, and was not 
to be disturbed again. 

She had not known that Lord Beaulieu was waiting 
for her downstairs, and at first she did not perceive his 
presence in the twilight gloom. It startled her consid- 
erably when he came forward and said gently : 

“Dear Betty, don’t cry!’’ 

“ You did not know him — you did not care for him as 
I did,’’ said the girl, with a fresh outburst of grief. 
Lord Beaulieu was too generous to feel any emotion of 
jealousy. 

“No, I didn’t know him as well as you did; but I 
always cared for him,’’ he said quietly. 

Lady Betty sobbed for a minute or two longer, then 
said in a gentle voice : 

“ He sent his love to you.’’ 

“Did he? He thought of me? Dear Betty, he used at 
one time to tell me that you and I — ’’ 

“ Oh, don’t, don’t !’’ said Betty. “ Not now ; not when 
he is dying. I know it all — he said so just now; but 
what does it matter? I can’t think of anybody but him, 
and you ought not to want me to. ’’ 

“I don’t,’’ said Lord Beaulieu. There was a footstool 
at her feet, and he dropped on one knee upon it, so that 
his face was nearly at a level with hers, and his hands 
seemed just ready to draw her into his embrace. But 
he dared not do that yet. “ I don’t want to do anything 
that he did not wish, Betty; but I should like to be able 
to comfort you a little if you would let me.’’ 

His hand touched her arm, and — why Lady Betty 
never could understand, but for some occult reason or 
other — it seemed to her good to lay her head down upon 
his shoulder and pillow her tear- wet face against it as 


MISUNDERSTANDING. 44 T 

confidingly as if it had been her mother’s lap. And his 
arm stole round her slight figure as he whispered some 
soft consoling words. 

But she would not let him say a single word of love. 
It seemed wrong to her that they should be speaking of 
love when Henry lay dying upstairs, and when his 
words to her were re-echoing in her heart. For al- 
though she loved Lionel well, she had an inner sense 
that what Henry had said was true— that although 
adverse fate and untoward circumstances had divided 
them, yet if he had been strong and prosperous it 
might well have chanced that she would have given 
him her heart. And with that underlying feeling at 
work she was not able to think of Beaulieu just then as 
of anything closer and dearer than a friend. But Beau- 
lieu knew the signs of relenting, and was more elated 
than it would have been wise to show — besides, he also 
was grieved for Henry’s death in itself, although he 
secretly agreed with the recently whispered remark 
of Lady Beltane that it would be the easiest and most 
effectual way of settling the question in dispute. 

He took Lady Betty home in the hansom, promising to 
let her know very soon how Henry was. But there was 
no need ; for a note from Elfrida told the girl early next 
morning that Henry had passed away a little before 
midnight. He had only recovered consciousness for a 
minute or two after his interview with Lady Betty, and 
possibly it was the effort that he had then made (though 
Elfrida did not say so) that hastened his end. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

MISUNDERSTANDING. 

One of the persons most strongly and most ctfriously 
affected by Henry’s death was his servant James. 
Philip had to leave his wife in order to speak to this 
man, whose laments were so open and uncontrolled as 
to disturb the other inmates of the house. Mrs. Graves 
summoned him into the passage, with a very myste- 


442 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


rious air, early in the morning after the final scene. 
“If you’d but just speak to that young man, sir,” she 
said rather apologetically. “ He’s takin’ on so in the 
pantry and his sobs is just awful. The maids say they 
haven’t been able to get a wink of sleep on account of 
it, ever since 2 o’clock this morning.” 

“ I must speak to him,” said Philip. For the moment 
he resented this touch of something not unlike comedy 
intruding itself into the tragedy involved in the cutting 
off of Henry’s young and pain-stricken life. But when 
he saw the man^ and noted his unaffected grief, his 
heart relented^ and he spoke to him in a kindly tone, 
reminding him that the boy was now at rest, and that 
it was useless to grieve for him even as much as if he 
had led an ordinarily painless and placid life. 

“I know, sir, I know,” said James, with a sob. 
“ That’s just it, sir. He’s had such a lot of trouble 
that it do seen! a shame he should die before coming to 
his rights — which I know were his rights as well as 
anybody.” 

“ You know? What do you know?” cried Philip 
hastily. 

“ I know this. Sir, that the story he told at the inquest 
was the true one; and my lady knew that it was, 
although she stood out so bold that it wasn’t. I heard 
it myself at the time ; for, feeling a bit curious as to 
what was going on, I had been hanging about, and the 
door of Sir Anthony’s bedroom being open, I happened 
to hear a good deal. ” 

“What! you knew and never told!” Philip’s voice 
was stern. 

“ That’s what you may well say, and that’s what lays 
so heavy on my mind,” said the man eagerly. “ But I 
told Sir Henry myself, I did indeed, sir; and he gave 
me hife orders to say nothing about it. I told him as 
soon as ever it was known that my lady was denying 
the truth. ‘ No,’ he said, ‘it’ll all be found out in time, 
or maybe Lady Kesterton will tell what it was she 
heard; but I don’t want,’ says he — and he says it with 
a glint in his eye as like that of Sir Anthony as two 


MISUNDERSTANDING. 


443 


peas — ‘I don’t want to owe iny rights to the eaves- 
dropping of a servant, ’ says he. And right he was, and 
I respected him for saying it.” 

“ It was like him,” said Philip, half to himself; then, 
in clearer tones, “I am very much surprised, James, 
that Mr. Henry wished to keep you near him under the 
circumstances; and I must say that if you had con- 
fessed at once, to the coroner or to Mr. Watson or some 
other person in authority, you might have made some 
difference in Mr. Henry’s position. But of course it is 
possible that you also were mistaken in what Sir Anr 
thony said. ” 

That I was not, sir!” said the man stoutly. “He 
said it as plain as possible that Mr. Henry was his lawful 
son and heir. And pleased I was to hear it, for we all 
of us liked Sir Henry, poor afflicted young gentleman!” 
And James gulped down another sob, and altogether 
presented so woe-begone and dishevelled an appearance 
that, in spite of Philip’s mingled irritation and disr 
pleasure, he could not but speak kindly. He recomr 
mended the man to keep silence and to command his 
noisy grief as much as possible, as it was disturbing to 
other people in the house ; and then he went back to 
Elfrida, who had now fallen into an uneasy slumber. 

He resolved, after thinking over the matter very care- 
fully, that he would not tell her what James had said — 
at any rate, until he had consulted his lawyer, He had 
not the slightest hope that James’ testimony would 
make any difference to the general estimate that the 
lawyer had already formed of the case ; and he feared 
to raise in her mind hopes that could not be realized. 

Henry was briried in a suburban cemetery ; and after 
the funeral both Philip and Jilfrida tried to return to 
their accustomed ways. But it was a difficult matter. 
Philip had his work to attend to, but was distracted 
and perplexed by the desire to become a companion to 
Elfrida, now left, necessarily, so much alone. As to 
Elfrida, she did not appear to desire Philip’s — or any 
other — companionship. She did not even care to see 
Lady Betty, especially as she surmised that her old 


444 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


friend, was now engaged to Lord Beaulieu. She sat 
alone, brooding over the past, over the hours that she 
had passed with Henry and the words that he used to 
say, until Philip was seriously alarmed for her health, 
and even for her reason. She could not be roused from 
her persistent depression, and he began to consider the 
possibility of taking her away from the house where 
Henry had died, so that by new scenes and new inter- 
ests she might perhaps recover health of body and of 
mind. 

The fact was that Elfrida was in a state of passionate 
though silent revolt against the dictates of Providence. 

From this state of apathy she was partiMly roused 
one day by an interview with J ames, who had left them 
and been taken on (at Betty’s request) by Lord Beau- 
lieu. James came to report on his good fortune, and to 
express his regret at leaving Mr. Winyates. And 
Philip being out, Elfrida spoke to the man, whom she 
had always liked for his devotion to Henry ; and heard — 
for the first time — the story of his listening at Sir An- 
thony’s door, and his regret at not having divulged the 
secrets that he had learned to the family solicitor before 
speaking of them to “Sir Henry,” as he always called 
the boy. Elfrida listened in amaze. 

“Have you told nobody^ then?” she asked. “Why 
haven’t you been to Mr. Winyates?” 

“ I have, ma’am.” 

“ You have?” 

“ He told me it would be no use to make the matter 
public, ma’am, as no doubt he have said to you,” said 
James, in his softest manner — trying to make it seem 
that he supposed Mrs. Winyates to know all about it. 
But Mrs. Winyates questioned him so eagerly that 
there was very little room for that supposition. 

When Philip came home that evening — it was a 
sunny evening in June — he found his wife pacing up 
and down the floor of his little study with an expression 
of bitter anger and injury upon her face — an expression 
which at first he failed utterly to understand. She 
turned toward him suddenly as he entered the room, 


MISUNDERSTANDING. 445 

and stood with her hands behind her, looking straight 
at him from under her beautiful level brows. 

“ Elfrida?” he said, interrogatively. He did not quite 
like the look oi her pale cheeks, her set lips, her flam- 
ing eyes. Advancing toward her he tried to take her 
hand, but she waved him back. 

“Don’t come near me,” she said imperiously. “I 
have something to ask you first. ” 

“ To ask me? Well,” he said, in a gentle tone, “ what 
is it?” 

“Is it true — really true — that you knew of James’ 
story?” 

“James’ story?” said Philip — rather at a loss for the 
moment. “ Oh, you mean his listening at the door?” 

“ Yes, yes — and that he knew how my poor Harry’s 
account was true all the time. Do you mean he told 
you that?” 

“ Yes, he told me, ” said Philip, gravely ; and was pro- 
ceeding to tell her how recently he had heard the tale, 
when she broke in with — 

“ And you never told any one? You never even men- 
tioned it to meV' 

“ My dear, there was no use in repeating it, I doubt 
whether much importance would have been attached to 
James’ report of the conversation; but even if it had, 
it seems that poor Henry did not wish the man to vSpeak. ” 

“ As if that ought to have prevented you from mak- 
ing the truth known!” cried Elfrida, with infinite scorn. 
“ Don’t you see what a difference it would have made 
in people’s opinion of HLenr)f? Poor darling, he felt his 
friends’ coldness more than words can tell. I believe” — 
sobbing — “ that that helped to kill him at the end. If 
other people could have been told what a foundation 
there was for — for his story, they would have been 
kinder to him. Oh, you might have spoken out!” 

“ You misunderstand, Elfrida. The story was only 
told to me by James after Henry’s death.” 

She looked disconcerted for a moment. Then she 
broke forth all the more vehemently— 


446 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ But you never told it to me! You left me to learn 
it from a servant!” 

“ Dearest Elfie, what difference does it make—toyou 

“ It makes every difference in the world ! It shows 
me that my poor boy was /lof deluded — not out of his 
mind, as people used to say, ” 

“ But you never thought that he was, Elfie? ” 

“ No, no— but yet sometimes I doubted. I thought 
that perhaps he had been mistaken; now I know he 
was not. I misjudged him and doubted him in my 
heart, and no doubt he felt that I was doubting and was 
troubled by it; and now I can never make amends.” 

“ I don’t think you need reproach yourself for want of 
faith in him, dear,” said Philip gently. 

But the soft answer did not turn away her wrath, 
“ It is of other people I am thinking, as well,” she said, 
“of what they thought of Harry. You can’t have 
cared very much for what was said of him, or you would 
have taken steps to vindicate his character a little, 
when the vindication lay in your hands,” 

“You must know,” said Philip, choosing his words 
with care, “ that I have done and would do everything 
in my power to that end, ” 

“In your power! If I were a man, nothing should 
be beyond my power,” Elfrida cried passionately. “ I 
would move heaven and garth to find out what I wanted 
to know.” 

“ Do you mean that I am not doing my utmost — my 
utmost 2" said Philip, with almost equal vehemence, 

“ How am I to know?” she retorted, “ There may be 
other things that you have not done. You did not tell 
me of this!” 

Then she fled away to her own room and cried bit- 
terly — not only for the injury (as she deemed it) in- 
flicted upon Henry, but for her own harsh words to 
Philip. She knew better, in her own heart, than to 
believe him guilty of intentional unkindness or injus- 
tice, but she felt more resentment against him than she 
could altogether explain. 

It was in this condition that Lady Beltane found thg 


MISUNDERSTANDING, 


447 


little household when she came with Betty on one of 
her periodical visits. Lady Kesterton had gone back 
to Southshire, so these visits were continued without 
the check of her bitter tongue. 

They paid several visits, therefore, to Taviton Square, 
and while Betty sat with Elfrida, Beatrice talked in 
gentle and soothing tones to Philip in the dining-room 
or the study. The sisters came at all hours, but some^ 
how they always came when Philip was at home. 
Elfrida was glad to see Betty ; it soothed her wounded 
spirit to listen to the gentle words of the girl whom 
Henry would have loved (she thought) if he had been 
alive, and strong and well. She was glad that Lady 
Beltane did not come to see her; she did not always 
know that Betty was accompanied by her sister-in-law ; 
she was in the mood when one does not care very much 
about the outside things of daily life. But if she did 
not notice, others did ; there were not wanting curious 
eyes to spy and peep, and ready ears to gather up any 
morsel of scandal; and otie person, at least, in the 
house was indignant on Elfrida’s behalf before Elfrida 
had ever dreamed that things were not going quite well. 

It was Mrs. Gfaves, the middle-aged motherly body, 
who had known Philip for so many years, who was 
first on the alert. And it happened on one hot July 
day that she toiled upstairs to the drawing-room where 
Elfrida Was sitting alone, knocked at the door, and on 
entering closed it behind her— a proceeding which 
filled Elfrida’s mind with surprise. 

“I beg your pardon. I’m sure, ma’am, she began, 
with an apologetic cough behind her ringed red hand, 
“but I thought I’d just look in and inquire how you 
was tomight. ” 

“ I am very well, thank you,” was Elfrida’s mechan- 
ical reply. 

“ And you continue to be comfortable in my apart- 
ments, ma’am?” continued Mrs. Graves, who had con- 
cocted this way of leading up to the subject before she 
came upstairs. 

“Yes, thank you,” said Elfrida, wearily. 


448 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ I am glad of that, ma’am. Not but what — in some 
ways — it might have been agreeable to me to hear that 
you was thinking of a change. ” 

“Oh,” said Elfrida, wide awake now, “do you want 
me to leave?” 

“Not necessarily, ma’am; and not on your account 
neither, for a sweeter lady never came into my house ; 
but there, are goings-on, ma’am, downvStairs, which I 
cannot approve of, and never shall ; and if by a word 
to Mr. Winyates you could stop them^ ma’am, I should 
be much obliged, for it’s making such a talk among the 
servants.” 

“ What do you mean, Mrs. Graves?” 

“ R’s all quite right and proper, I make no doubt, 
ma’am, but it don’t look quite well, all the same, for 
you and my Lady Betty to be always sitting here, while 
my lady, her sister, stops downstairs. If you could 
just manage to sit all together, ma’am, for a few times, 
because it does look a bit funny, you know, for Lady 
Beltane always to go and sit with Mr. Winyates instead 
of coming to see you.” 

“ I don’t think Lady Beltane’s doings concern you, or 
my husband’s, either, Mrs. Graves,” said Elfrida, with 
such a flash of her deep gray eyes that Mrs. Graves fled 
in great alarm. 

“ But I’ve said it,” Mrs. Graves reflected, as she lum- 
bered hastily down the stairs, “ and though she’s angry 
she’ll not forget it, and maybe she won’t let it hap- 
pen again. She’ve got a spirit of her own, she have, 
although she looks so meek just now.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

IN THE SQUARE GARDENS. 

Elfrida had not only a “spirit,” but a brain and a 
will of her own, and, angry as she at first felt with Mrs. 
Graves, she saw that she had better open her eyes a little 
to what was going on around her, rather than give 
occasion to outsiders to judge her husband’s proceedings 


In the square gardens. 


449 


harshly. To Philip she said nothing- ; but when Tvady 
Betty was again sitting with her she remarked rather 
abruptly : 

“ Lady Beltane is here, is she not?’ 

“Yes,” said Betty. “She thought you wanted to be 
quiet, dear, and so she would not come up.” 

“I like to be quiet, certainly,” said Mrs. Winy ates, 
“ but I should be pleased to see Lady Beltane another 
time. I have no intention of shutting myself up. ” 

Betty began to explain — almost to apologize. 

“ She thought you would like to be alone. It is much 
pleasanter to sit here with you than to be in a crowd. ” 

“ Yes, it is. But if Lady Beltane is in the house, I 
think it is only right that she should come up to the 
drawing-room,” said Elfrida, with dignity. 

Whereat Lady Betty blushed as hotly as if she had 
been detected in a crime, and murmured : 

“ I will tell her you can receive her now, when she 
comes.” 

“Thank you, dear,” Elfrida answered; and nothing 
more was said. 

The substance of this conversation was repeated to 
Lady Beltane by Betty, who wondered why Beatrice 
looked so odd for a minute or two and then burst into 
one of those hard, mocking laughs which her sister-in- 
law especially disliked. 

“ So Mrs. Winyates is waking up, is she? Ah, well, 
I’m quite willing to gratify her. I’ll go and sit with 
her for an hour to-morrow afternoon.” 

“ I suppose we shall be leaving town soon, so we 
shall not see so much of them,” said Betty. 

“ Oh, I suppose so! but I don’t mean to go just yet — 
not till Parliament rises,” returned Beatrice. 

At which Betty opened her eyes. Lady Beltane was 
not usually willing to stay in town after the middle of 
July; but she said nothing, knowing well enough that 
Beatrice did not like her doings to be commented upon. 
They went together next day at 4 o’clock in the after- 
noon, and drank tea in Elfrida’s drawing-room. Philip 
was out. 

29 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


45<5 


“So sorry not to see Mr. Winyates,’’ Lady Beltane 
drawled, in her soft, affected tones. 

“ He will be sorry when he hears that he has missed 
you,” said Elfrida courteously. “But you have seen 
him so often of late that perhaps you can put up with 
me to-day as a change.” This with a smile, which 
covered an intention to strike home. Lady Beltane 
parried skilfully. 

“ Mr. Winyates is such a good talker: he likes, I 
think, to have the chance of some conversation now and 
then.” 

“Yes, he likes it,” said, Elfrida promptly; “but he 
has so much work to do that he has not time for general 
conversation, and grudges it when obliged to give it.” 

“Ah, ours was not general conversation,” sighed Lady 
Beltane softly ; but none the less she felt herself 
worsted in the encounter, and entertained henceforward 
a greater respect for Elfrida than she had ever felt 
before. 

“That girl is improving,” she said, in an enigmatic 
way to Lady Betty, as they drove home together ; but 
from Lady Betty’s look of surprise Lady Beltane saw 
that she had not been understood. And when Lady 
Betty came again she came alone. 

Elfrida kept her own counsel. But she could not 
help noticing that Philip was absent-minded and dis- 
tant during that day and the next ; he seemed vexed 
about something — he would not tell her what. A queer 
little suspicion intruded itself into Elfrida’ s heart when 
she saw this look of vexation and disappointment upon 
his face. She knew that there had been a love affair of 
long standing between him and Lady Beltane : could it 
be that an understanding still existed? Could it be 
that Philip was tired of her, and was seeking more con- 
genial society in Lady Beltane? 

Anger blazed up fiercely within her at the thought. 
She had been content to say that, though she did not 
love Philip, she respected him : but what if she could 
no longer respect? What misery would her life be 


IN THE SQUARE GARDENS. 45 1 

then — if she were tied forever to a man whom she hated 
and despised! 

Philip had for some days been unusually late home ; 
his work at the British MUvSeum kept him, he said, and 
Elfrida must not expect him until she saw him back. 
Accordingly, one evening, soon after 8 o’clock, when 
he had not yet returned, Elfrida possessed herself 
of the key of the Square Gardens, and went out to sit 
on a bench for a little while in the gradually cooling 
air, and to watch the antics of the London sparrows in 
the sooty grass. She sat there for some time, almost 
as much amused by the children who disported them- 
selves on the gravelled walks as by the sparrows. She 
had told Mrs. Graves that she was going for a walk, and, 
indeed, she had intended to walk a little way along the 
streets and squares, but the green grass of the Gardens 
tempted her to stay. The Square was not much used 
as a thoroughfare, and the occasional rattle of a cab or 
cart over the wooden pavement was scarcely noticed by 
Elfrida as she sat watching the glow die out of the 
western sky. She heard the clocks and bells of the 
neighborhood strike nine, and she noticed that the day- 
light was beginning to fade, but she was not yet disposed 
to stir. Even if Philip had come in, she said to her- 
self, he would not want her yet. He was far too busy 
now to care for her society. 

It was quite dusk when at last she rose and walked 
slowly along the path to the' gate. On her way she 
passed a retired seat, shaded with overhanging trees ; 
its back was toward the path by which Elfrida came, 
and she noticed that it was tenanted by two persons — a 
than and a woman. She started with the shock of a 
sudden recognition. She knew the couple well enough 
by sight — even though their faces were not turned 
toward her. They were Philip and Lady Beltane. 

She stood still for a moment, looking at them, noting 
every detail of their attitudes. They were sitting closer 
together than was actually necessary, and Philip 
seemed to be speaking in a low tone. Elfrida came 
nearer, and then she was able to see that Lady Beltane 


452 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

was crying, and that her hand lay ungloved in Philip’s 
larger clasp. 

With a proud recoil against anything that looked 
like spying or eavesdropping, she walked straight up 
to the seat, allowing her feet to make as much noise as 
they could on the gravelled path. She could not well 
go round the seat and stand before the two, as at first 
she thought of doing, because the bench faced a flower- 
bed and some shrubs, where there was hardly room to 
walk; but she came behind the pair and stood for a 
moment, expecting them to look round at her. But 
Philip was evidently too much absorbed in what he 
was saying to take notice of footsteps on the gravel. 
And just as Elfrida had raised her hand to touch his 
shoulder — for it was in this way that she thought of 
attracting his attention to herself — Lady Beltane saw 
her. A slight — very slight — smile curved her beautiful 
lips for an instant. Philip did not see it, but Elfrida 
did; and its suggestion of a sneer cut her to the heart. 
There was such a look of triumph, of insolent defianee, 
in that little smile, that Elfrida could not bear the 
thought of speaking either to her husband or to Lady 
Beltane. She withdrew her hand and turned away, 
feeling in every nerve that Lady Beltane watched her 
every step to the garden gate. 

Philip stopped abruptly in something that he was 
saying, and glanced up. 

“ Did you see any one^ — anything?” asked Lady Bel- 
tane. 

“ No, I only thought you were looking at some one.” 

“ A person passed close to us and stared rather hard,” 
said Beatrice. “That was all. You were saying — ” 

Philip changed his position a little and sat erect. 
“ I was saying — I — upon my word, I don’t know! But 
you understand what I mean, Beatrice. I am very 
sorry — it is all that I can say.” 

He drew away his hand so gently that it seemed 
more as if he were courteously relieving her than dis- 
continuing a caress. “ It is growing late, ” he said. 
“ Surely they will miss you at home?” 


IN THE SQUARE GARDENS. 


453 


The spell was broken. Lady Beltane felt this, but 
she made one desperate effort to regain her power. 
“Walk with me till we meet a cab,” she said, “just a 
little way; nobody will see us in these quiet squares.” 
She put her hand lightly within his arm, and they 
walked away together. 

Elfrida had gone straight into the house and up to 
her own room. Here she sat down, without removing 
her hat and gloves, and tried to adjust her thovights. 
It had never occurred to her before that Philip might 
prove untrue to her. Untrue indeed, in the grosser 
sense, she did not think thajt he would be ; but in heart, 
in mind and soul he might be untrue without seeming 
to violate any one of his marriage vows. And this sort 
of untruth seemed to Elfrida the worst of all. She had 
thought of Philip always as a very Bayard of truth and 
honor; was he, after all, weak, deceitful, fickle, as she 
had heard it said that men always were? He had loved 
Beatrice once: could it be that he loved her still? 

She heard his footstep at last in the lower part of the 
house, and she began nurriedly to throw off her hat and 
gloves; then, after a moment’s hesitation, her other 
garments. She could not speak to him, sit with him, 
look as if nothing had happened. She would say that 
she had a headache, or pretend that she was asleep. 
She must think over what she had seen before she spoke 
to Philip again. To the maid, who came to inquire 
after her, she gave the message that she would not be 
down again that night and begged that she might not 
be disturbed. Philip came in very softly a little later, 
and stood by the bedside a few minutes; but she feigned 
sleep so well that he was obliged to go away unsatisfied 
as to her state. It was so unusual for Elfrida to com- 
plain of headache and to go early to bed that Philip 
was surprised and uneasy. But he had to wait until 
morning for any explanation; for Elfrida would not 
speak to him that night. 

Her breakfast was brought to her by Philip’s orders, 
and before he went out he came to ask anxiously how 
she felt. Her white face and reddened eyelids were 


454 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


accounted for by her plea of headache, and she shook her 
head when he suggested that she should see a doctor. 
“I shall be better now; I will rest for a little while,” 
she said, anxious to get rid of him ; and he went away 
somewhat startled and grieved by the impatience of her 
tone. 

But she did not rest long. When he was safely out 
of the house, she got up and roamed about her bedroom 
and the adjoining dressing-room, more from a desire to 
move about than for any especial reason. She was rest- 
less with her unhappiness, and did not know how to 
control herself. What should she do? That was the 
question which she could not answer. * Should she ques- 
tion Philip? No, that was the last thing that she could 
do. Besides, she said to herself, she need not question : 
she was perfectly sure of the facts. He could not sit 
hand in hand with another woman in a garden at twi- 
light if he loved his wife — so Elfrida argued with herself. 
And what course could a self-respecting wife pursue 
under these circumstances? Would it not be better for 
her to leave him at once and never see him more? 

As soon as ever this thought forced itself upon Elfri- 
da’s consciousness, it seemed to take possession of her 
altogether. She began to plan where she could go, what 
she could do. She had some money — not much, but 
enough to take her abroad to one of her old schools, 
where she believed that she could find a livelihood. It 
occurred to her that she would see how much money she 
possessed in case she wanted to go. A rouleau of gold 
had come to her after Henry’s death — it was money 
which Sir Anthony had given to him from time to time. 
She might use that as she pleased ; it would not be like 
taking Philip’s money and using it against his will. 
How much had she got? 

She looked round for her desk — a little school-girlish 
desk of brown wood which had been hers for many 
years. She knew that she had put the gold inside this 
desk. Finding her keys with some difficulty, she 
opened it and touched the spring of a secret drawer. 
Yes, there it lay, the neat little packet which had once 


THE CLUE. 


455 


belonged to her dead brother. And what was the envel- 
ope that lay beside it? She had forgotten that she had 
ever put anything inside that secret drawer. Idly, 
mechanically, as it seemed, she took np the envelope 
and opened it. The sheet of paper that she unfolded 
contained but a few brief words. 

“ The Reverend Austin Clare, recently curate at St. 
George’s Church, Bloomsbury; afterward rector of St. 
Fillan’s-in-the-South,Bishopsgate Street, London, E. C. 
If Elfrida Paston is ever in trouble or difficulty of any 
kind, she is recommended to apply to the above-named 
clergyman. R. Watson, Solicitor." 

What did it mean? 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE CLUE. 

Elfrida sat down with the paper in her trembling 
hands, and tried to recollect the circumstances under 
which it had come into her possession. It was not 
difficult to do this. She soon remembered that it had 
been forwarded to her on Mr. Watson’s death, and that 
she had put it away and thought no more about it. 
Henry must have forgotten, too. “ Trouble and diffi- 
culty” — surely she had had enough of both ! And to 
think that all the time she had held this address in her 
own hands — possibly (Elfrida thought at once) the ad- 
dress of the very man who had married her father and 
mother, or who, at any rate, could tell her a good deal 
about them. 

But what was to be done? Should she tell Philip, 
and ask his advice? No; that was the last thing that 
she could do. The distrust of Philip, that had been 
latent within her ever since she had found out his reti- 
cence concerning James’ story, leaped up like a living 
flame. No, she would not go to him; perhaps — he be- 
ing one of the Kestertons, after all — perhaps he would 


4S6 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


be sorry to make any fresh discoveries; perhaps he 
would refuse to let her seek out this Mr. Clare, in order 
to ascertain how much he knew of Elfrida’s history. 
She felt this supposition to be false as soon as she had 
uttered it to herself, but she was too much embittered 
against Philip to withdraw it. 

She put the rouleau of gold into her purse, and then 
dressed herself to go out. She had no special or definite 
plan of action, and she had almost lost sight of her an- 
ger against Philip in the overpowering desire to find 
this clergyman who was to help her if she was in any 
“trouble or perplexity.” When she had found him — 
and in her youthful ignorance Elfrida imagined that 
this would be a very easy matter — then she would 
think about Philip. Till then, her mind was set upon 
seeing Mr. Clare. 

After a little thought she summoned Mrs. Graves, 
who exclaimed in horror at the sight of her pale cheeks 
and heavy eyes. 

“I’m all right!” said Elfrida, impatiently. “I have 
a little headache, but the fresh air will do it good. I 
am going out presently. ” 

“ So I’m sure you should, ma’am ; and it’s a pity Mr. 
Winyates can’t take you himself, instead — ” Here 
Mrs. Graves bit her lips and smoothed down her apron. 
“ Instead o’ spending all his time at the British Museum, 
I was going to say, ma’am,” she remarked blandly. 

Elfrida knew very well that she had not been going 
to say anything of the kind, and only waited to be 
questioned before betraying the fact that she had alluded 
to Lady Beltane. But Elfrida was not going to ques- 
tion her on that subject. 

“I wanted to know,” she said distinctly, “whether 
you remember a Mr. Clare who once lived in this 
neighborhood? At least, he was a curate at St. 
George’s Church. ” 

“ Do you know how long ago, ma’am?” 

“ It must be some years ; he became rector of a church 
in the City — St. Fillan’s-in-the-South — do you know it?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t,” said Mrs. Graves, “nor do I re- 


THE CLUE. 


457 


member Mr. Clare, ma’am, but I’ll make inquiries for 
you, if you like.” 

“Yes, do, please, ” said Elfrida rather eagerly. “It 
may be about twenty-two years since he was here — 
more or less — I can’t be sure.” 

“ It ain’t much to go upon, is it, ma’am?” said Mrs. 
Graves, with an inquisitive look. 

“ No, not much, but it is something. And can you 
tell me the best way of getting to Bishopsgate vStreet?” 

Mrs. Graves gave the requisite information about 
the Underground Railway, and Elfrida thanked her 
and prepared to go out. But before she went she 
looked round her a little wistfully. 

“ I don’t quite know when I shall be back,” she said, 
taking up a small black bag which lay near her, and 
which Mrs. Graves had not hitherto noticed. “ Tell 
Mr. Winyates not to wait lunch or dinner for me; I 
am going away on business.” 

“ But you’ll be home to-night, ma’am?” 

“ Yes — no — I don’t know.” 

“ But you’re leaving a note or something for Mr. 
Winyates, ma’am?” said Mrs. Graves, with visible 
anxiety in her face. “ Because he didn’t expect you to 
be out to-night, I know, ma’am; he spoke to me just 
afore he went out about you going down to Richmond 
or some such place — ” 

“ I should not go to Richmond even if I were at home, ” 
said Elfrida, with the remarkable clearness which 
characterized her speech on this occasion. “ Tell Mr. 
Winyates exactly what I say, please ; that I may be back 
to-night or I may not, and th-at I wish him not to be 
anxious. ” 

And forthwith she took up the little black bag and 
left the house. There was perhaps more bravado than 
real resolution in the message that she sent to Philip. 
She had never definitely made up her mind that she 
would stay away from him — for where could she go? 
But it occurred to her that the man of whom she was in 
search — the Reverend Austin Clare — might possibly 
have left his City church and gone into the country, 


458 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


in which case Elfrida thought that she would go into 
the country too, and find him out. Anything more 
than this — anything like a distinct resolve to leave her 
husband — was far from her mind. But things do not 
always turn out for us as we have planned. 

Philip came home in the afternoon with a pleasant 
scheme in his mind. He had thought Elfrida looking 
unduly white and fagged, and meant to propose a long 
drive in the cooler hours of the evening to Richmond 
or to Kew. He had already been round to the livery- 
stables and bespoken a carriage. And coming home 
after an exhausting day’s work, it fell upon him like a 
thunder-clap to hear that his wife had taken her depart- 
ure from the house without saying whither she was go- 
ing or when she was coming back. 'Mrs. Graves, of 
course, made the worst of the situation. 

“ From the way she spoke, sir, I don’t think that she 
meant to come back in a ’urry,” said Mrs. Graves, who 
deemed herself privileged to say things to Mr. Win- 
yates which she would never have dreamed of saying 
to the ordinary lodger. 

“ There is no necessity for you to talk in that way, 
Mrs. Graves,” said Philip, who was rather helpless be- 
fore the lugubrious landlady ; “ and I beg you will not 
let me hear such nonsense again. ” 

Mrs. Graves tossed her head. “Nonsense, indeed!” 
she said. “ I ain’t in the habit of talking ‘nonsense, ’ 
sir, as you very well knows. What Mrs. Winyates said 
tome — her very words — was this: ‘Tell Mr. Winyates 
that I’ll most likely not be back again, and he needn’t 
worrit himself about me. ’ ” 

Elfrida’s message, thus translated into the vernacular, 
produced almost a paralyzing effect upon Philip. He 
sat down and gazed blankly before him, feeling utterly 
bewildered and dismayed. What could have happened 
to take Elfrida away like this! 

“ Did she not say where she was going?” 

“Well, she did ask me the best way of getting to 
Bishopsgate Street,” said Mrs. Graves candidly, “and 
she talked about some church there; but she couldn’t 


THE CLUE. 


459 


sleep in churches if she was ever so pious, nor have 
her dinner and tea; so it stands to reason that she can’t 
be there now.” 

“ What church was it?” said Philip sternly. 

“ I couldn’t for the life of me remember, sir. I was 
that flabbergasted you could have knocked me down 
with a feather, as the saying is ; but it ended with the 
words ‘in the north, ’ or .south, or east, or west, or some- 
thing — though, indeed, I didn’t take very partic’lar 
notice. ” 

“ Oh, well, no doubt she has her reasons, and we shall 
hear all about them when she comes back!” said Philip, 
becoming conscious of the humiliation involved in talk- 
ing over his affairs with his landlady, and desirous of 
putting an end to the conversation : but the attempt to 
silence Mrs. Graves resulted in an ebullition of wrath in 
which she said rather more than she had meant to say. 

“ Reasons, indeed, you may well say, and you may 
hear of them if she do come back, which to the best of 
my belief, sir, she won’t!” said Mrs. Graves. “She’s 
been unhappy for a good bit of time — poor — sweet 
young lady ! having lost her brother and seeing them 
as ought to be kind to her taken up with ladies of title, 
and walking with them in gardens and sitting with 
them in my dining-room ! That’s what’s sent Mrs. Win- 
yates away, sir, and you may make the best of it you 
can.” 

“Woman,” cried Philip, starting up in a hot rage, 
“go out of this room, and never speak to me again!” 

“Woman, indeed!” said Mrs. Graves, tossing her 
head ; “ and go out of my rooms, in my own house — well, 
I never did hear of such a thing ! But to be sure, you 
are upset, and I can make allowances; and I bear no 
malice nor evil thoughts agin you when I think how 
your heart must ache, Mr. Winyates, at the way you’ve 
neglected your young wife for them that shall be name- 
less. Do you think she liked you to be sitting down 
here with a lady, while she talked to my Lady Betty 
upstairs? Do you think she liked seeing you in the 
Square Gardens last night? I saw her pass you ! I was 


460 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


in my upstairs room at the window, and I saw her go 
up to the seat where you and my lady — ” 

“ Mrs. Graves, this cannot go on!” said Philip, now 
white to the lips. “ Oblige me by leaving me alone. It 
is hardly necessary for me to say that I will leave your 
rooms as soon as my wife comes home — ” 

“ Which I sa)^ will be long enough,” said Mrs. Graves. 
“ However, I don’t wish to put you out. I only tell 
the truth as I’ve seen it myself, and if Mrs. Winyates 
comes back again you can ask her whether I’ve made 
a mistake.” 

She left the room in rather a noisy way, and Philip 
conjectured that she had been consuming strong liquors 
to an unusual extent, and assured himself that she could 
not know what she was saying. 

Nevertheless, he was considerably disturbed by it. 
Could it be true that Elfrida had been jealous of Lady 
Beltane? Was it possible that she had seen him in the 
gardens? He remembered the incident — the passing 
of a woman, who had stopped for a moment behind the 
bench on which Beatrice and he were sitting. Could 
it have been Elfrida who halted there, and saw him 
with Beatrice’s hand in his? Philip grew hot about 
the ears as this conjecture occurred to him. Assuredly 
he had meant no harm ; the affectionate attitude was of 
no importance, if Elfrida could but have known it ; still, 
if Elfrida had seen him, he felt that she must have had 
cause to be annoyed and aggrieved. 

Looking back he saw by several little signs that this 
had probably been the case. She had gone to bed be- 
fore he returned, and had pleaded headache as an 
excuse for not coming downstairs. She had remained 
asleep — apparently asleep — when he came into the 
room, and had refused to speak to him. She had evi- 
dently been angry. But her anger did not explain the 
extraordinary proceeding of this day. Why should she 
go to Bishopsgate Street, and leave a message that she 
might perhaps not return that night? Philip was utterly 
bewildered, troubled and anxious. 

It was possible that she would return. Perhaps she 


THE CLUE. 


461 


would be back in a few minutes, and would laugh at 
him for his anxiety. Perhaps some school friend of 
hers had written or telegraphed to her to meet her in 
the City. But on inquiry he found that she had received 
no letter or telegram that morning. She could not, he 
thought, go very far away ; for surely she had no money 
for travelling expenses. Unless — 

Suddenly a thought struck him — a thought which took 
him with long strides up to her room. He remembered 
Henry’s little roll of sovereigns. It had been locked 
away in her desk — not to be used, as she once said, 
except for Henry’s benefit in some way or another. She 
would never have touched that sacred deposit for any 
ordinary reason. Had she taken it with her now? 

He found the drawer wide open, the desk taken out 
and set upon the dressing-table, the secret drawer 
unclosed. He glanced at the secret drawer, and saw at 
once that it was empty. Then she had taken the gold ; 
and she had taken it probably because she had heard 
something which seemed to her to point to a discovery. 
So much, to Philip’s mind, was certain. But then a 
new anxiety presented itself. She was little accustomed 
to English travelling, to English ways of doing busi- 
ness: what if she got into some scrape or difficulty, in 
which a man’s help would have been of the first impor- 
tance to her ! What if she were even now in positive 
danger? Philip chafed under the thought: he could 
not rest, but paced the rooms and went up and down 
the stairs in ever-increasing and feverish anxiety. 

But his anxiety was of no avail. The evening melted 
slowly into night, and still Elfrida did not come. The 
midnight hour tolled from a hundred steeples; the 
night grew faint with dawn, and the July morning rose 
brilliantly over the great City, but still there was no 
trace of Elfrida. The morning posts came, but brought 
no line from her. And so that day passed, and the next, 
and the next ; but Elfrida never came. It seemed as if 
she might have vanished out of the world altogether, so 
complete was her disappearance. 


462 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY. 

When Elfrida lef t Taviton Square she went to Gower 
Street station, and proceeded thence by train to Bishops- 
g-ate Street. She had never before been in the City, and 
the sight of the ceaseless crowds, the wide thorough- 
fares, the endless stream of vehicles over the wooden 
roads, startled and confused her. But after a little 
while she plucked up her courage, and addressing her- 
self to a policeman asked her way to the church of St. 
Fillan’s-in-the-South. 

St. Fillan’s Square was a curious little nook, such 
as can be met with here and there in the great City. 
It was not a thoroughfare and was very quiet. Even 
cabs or carriages seldom penetrated to this dim recess — 
this small paved quadrangle, surmounted by tall old 
houses, and dominated by an old gray church of James 
the First’s time. This was St. Fillan’s-in-the-South: a 
broad, squat, rough-looking building, with steps up to 
the door, and an oriel window above the entrance. 
In a corner beside it, Elfrida noticed a building of 
decidedly ecclesiastical character, but of much more 
recent date than the church ; it was built of gray stone, 
had an oak door studded with nails, and narrow latticed 
windows with diamond panes. Elfrida judged it to be 
the rectory, and wondered whether Mr. Clare, the rec- 
tor, still lived there. 

The church door was open — a fact which somewhat 
surprised her, until she heard a bell ringing and sur- 
mised that a service was about to begin. She entered, 
but . saw nobody but an old man in a black gown who 
was pulling a bell-rope ; so she quietly took a seat in 
one of the high-backed pews and looked about her. 
Elfrida judged that the clergyman must have slightly 
ritualistic tendencies, and wondered why he had services 
at mid-day on a Friday, and whether the church were 
ever full. 

It certainly was not full on that day. Some old 


A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY, 463 ‘ 

women — pensioners, evidently — filled the front bench, 
and behind them came half a dozen blue-coated old 
men. Then, to Elfrida’s surprise, a few City men 
appeared; men in frock-coats and respectable gray 
trousers, with conventional silk hats in their hands. 
She did not know that the ten-minute mid-day service 
at St. Fillan’s was widely known, and was held every 
day, not on Fridays alone, as Elfrida thought. 

Presently the clergyman came in.; a tall white-haired 
man, with blue glasses, and a young fair-haired curate. 
They said the Litany ; then a hymn was sung, and the 
congregation dispersed. Elfrida looked a good deal at 
the clergyman ; she liked his face, for it was intellectual, 
refined, and benevolent. She wondered whether he 
were indeed the Mr. Clare of whom she was in search, 
and whether she should have the courage to speak to 
him when the service was done. 

She had an opportunity for doing so if she had chosen, 
when the service was over, for the clergyman, after 
divesting himself of his surplice, came out into the 
church again, and conversed with some of the poorer 
persons, who were his parishioners. He then walked 
down the aisle, close by the pew in which Elfrida sat, 
but her heart failed her, and she did not like to arrest 
his attention. He went out — probably back to his own 
house; and the church was gradually emptied. Elfrida 
sat on, till at last her attention was caught by the atti- 
tude of the verger, who was standing at the door, clank- 
ing his keys as if he wanted to lock up the building. 

Elfrida rose and made her way slowly to him. He 
waited when he saw her approaching, and eyed her 
curiously. 

“ Do you want to close the church?” she asked. 

“I want to go to my dinner,” said the old man 
rather surlily; “but I don’t mind leaving the side door 
open for you if you want to stay a bit. The front door 
I willlock up, whatever the rector may say. I’ve been 
here longer than him, anyway!” 

“ What is the rector’s name?” asked Elfrida. 

“Name? White, to be sure! don’t you know that? 


464 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

I wonder you came to St. Fillan’s, then. Why, he’s 
been here a long" time, and he’s a man that folks talk 
about.” 

“ Haven’t you ever had a Mr. Clare here?” 

“Clare — Clare, why, yes, years ago! the rector — 
What do you want to know for?” he broke off suddenly. 

“I’ll tell that to Mr. Clare when I find him,” said 
Elfrida, her spirit rising against this unwarranted 
questioning. 

The old man burst into a cackling laugh, and turned 
on his heel. “Then find him and tell him,” he said. 
“You’ll have a rare job, I’m thinking.” 

“ Is he dead?” asked Elfrida sharply. 

“Dead? Ho! ho! ho! You won’t find Mr. Clare in 
this world, anyhow. Ask the rector — he’ll tell you all 
about Mr. Clare.” 

And then he pulled the door close and locked it, leav- 
ing Elfrida for a moment in the horrified belief that 
she was locked into the church. But a glance round 
the building reassured her. There was a small side door 
standing wide open on the north side, and she could see 
an oblong space of sunny pavement where the blue 
pigeons were strutting about and arching their glossy 
necks. Elfrida walked up and down the aisles with an 
aimless desire of passing the time away. It was more 
than half-past 12; if she went to the rectory to in- 
quire about Mr. Clare, she would be intruding at an 
hour close to luncheon-time ; she thought she had better 
wait for a little time. She did not reflect that she 
would be more likely to catch Mr. White, if that was 
his name, at home just then than at any other hour; 
indeed, she had almost a childish shrinking from him, 
and if she could in any way have avoided the necessity 
of seeing him at all she would have done so. 

Elfrida was naturally brave ; but on this occasion her 
nerves were inclined to fail her. She had had a shock 
on the previous day. She had had a sleepless night, 
and had touched no food since tea-time. It was no 
wonder that she felt weak and unstrung, and she was 
not wise enough to go to a shop and fortify herself with 


A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY. 


465 


luncheon. Instead of that she sat down in a corner of 
one of the pews, and fell fast asleep from very exhaus- 
tion and fatigue. 

It was 4 o’clock when she awoke, and then she found 
the old verger standing before her, with his fingers in 
his button-holes, and a very grim look upon his face. 

“ Young woman,” he began, as soon as Elfrida started 
up, “ though you don’t seem aware of it, let me tell you 
that this ’ere house is a house of God, and meant for 
people to say their prayers in, not to go to sleep in, for 
hours at a stretch, as though they hadn’t got homes of 
their own to go to, which perhaps you haven’t!” 

“ Oh, I am so sorry,” said Elfrida, confusedly arrang- 
ing her hat and mantle, which had been somewhat dis- 
arranged in the course of her slumbers ; “ I only meant 
to wait until you came back, or until I could see the 
rector, and I suppose the heat of the day made me 
sleepy.” 

“Well, you can’t see the rector now,” said the old 
man, with a chuckle of satisfaction, “ because he’s gone 
to a meeting at the West End, and won’t be back for a 
couple of bowers yet. 

“Won’t he indeed? Oh, I am sorry!” said Elfrida 
again ; and she said it with so sweetly grieved an accent, 
and so weary and white a face, that the old man’s humor 
was softened and he spoke in a conciliating tone. 

“Well, as you’ve waited so long, you 'may as well 
wait a bit longer. What’s it you wanted the rector 
about, hey? Couldn’t I do as well?” 

Elfrida looked at him with such amaze that he felt 
bound to explain. 

“ I do lots o’ the rector’s jobs for him — ’specially 
since he’ve not been so strong as he used to doj The 
rector he thinks a deal o’ me, and if there’s anything 
I can do to save him trouble I’m always ready to do it.” 

“Thank you; it’s very kind of you,” said Elfrida, 
only half comprehending the humor of the situation. 
“ But I don’t know that you could do anything. I want 
to find Mr. Clare. ” 

The old man Gibbons seemed much amused by this 
30 


466 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


desire. “ Ho ! ho ! He ! he !” he chuckled. “ And when 
you’ve found him, what then?” 

“ I want to find out the date of a marriage,” she said 
doubtfully. 

“A marriage — here at St. Fillan’s? And what’s the 
good of going to the rector about that? Ain’t I parish 
clerk, and don’t I keep the books safe locked up in the 
vestry? Why, the rector has to get the books from me 
when he wants ’em. Was the marriage celebrated in 
our church? In what year, miss, and maybe you can 
tell me about what month? You can consult the regis- 
ter if you please. ” 

Elfrida kney that the records at Somerset House had 
been examined, and that no church in London contained 
the entry of her father’s marriage. Nevertheless, with 
an odd sort of desire to investigate this matter for her- 
self, she mentioned a date that she thought approxi- 
mately near, and asked to see the register of marriages 
for that year. 

“Come into the vestry, missy,” said the old man, 
with more cordiality. “I’ll get the book for you. 
There’s a trifling fee usually expected for making an 
extract,” he went on, with a sidelong glance at the girl’s 
black garments as she followed him silently into the 
vestry; “but if you don’t happen to have it about you, 
another day — ” 

Elfrida ’s hand had searched in her purse already. 
“ Is this enough?” she said, handing him a coin as they 
reached the vestry door. 

Old Gibbons looked at it and looked at her. “ Why, 
it’s a suvering,” he said gruffly. “You didn’t know 
that, missy. I’ll be bound. Here, take it back!” 

“ No, I knew,” said Elfrida. “ I don’t mind — so long 
as I find what I want.” 

“You must want it rather partic’lar, I reckon,” said 
Gibbons. “ Well, if we find what we want, miss, I ain’t 
above taking it; and if we don't find it, why, I’m good 
for seventeen-and-sixpence change. So that’s a bar- 
gain.” 

Elfrida smilingly agreed, and the old man accordingly 


A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY. 


467 


unlocked the chest in which the books were kept, drew 
out one and laid it on the vestry table for her. “ That’s 
the sixties,” he said. “ It was in the sixties you wanted 
to look, wasn’t it? And the names now — man’s name, 
lady’s name — if no offence? For I can help you to 
look, if you like, miss.” 

“ Kesterton — Derrick, or else Paston, ” said Elfrida, 
reflecting with a pang that it was possible that her 
mother might have used the latter name. “ Anthony 
Kesterton — Mary Derrick. ” 

“ Those names will not be found in the register of 
St. Fillan’s Church,” said a voice behind the pair. The 
old clerk started up erect, with something of the atti- 
tude of a soldier whose superior has called him to order, 
hdfrida, who was sitting in a wooden arm-chair, looked 
round and slowly rose. It was the white-haired clergy- 
man, with blue glasses; he now also wore a green shade 
above his eyes. He had entered the vestry by a door 
which communicated with his own house. 

“ Pray do not rise,” he said to Elfrida, with a kindly 
courtesy which she liked, although she half resented the 
interruption. “ Can I assist you in any way? I know 
the books almost by heart, and can assure you that the 
name of Kesterton is not contained in them. If it had 
been, I should have remembered the fact, because I 
happened to know Sir Anthony Kesterton, the late 
baronet of that name, fairly well.” 

“You knew him!” said Elfrida, suddenly starting to 
her feet. “ Then perhaps you can tell me — perhaps you 
can help me. If I could but speak to you for a minute 
or two!” 

“ Why not?” said the rector, in a kind voice. 
“ Would you like to talk to me here, or will you come 
into my house?” He pushed back his shade, took off 
his glasses, and looked at her as he spoke. “ My 
eyes are weak,” he explained, with a little smile, “so 
I generally shield them from the light as much as I 
can. For that reason, I should be pleased if you would 
gratify me so far as to step into my study, which is 
close by. You will? That is very kind of you, -Put 


468 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


away the books, Gibbons; I don’t think they will be 
wanted. Whose is that sovereign? You have not been 
taking money from the lady, I hope ? I have spoken of 
that before.” 

“ Oh, it was only in case I found something I wanted, ” 
said Elfrida hastily. “ I should have been so glad to 
reward him if I had. He has been very good to me. 
I may give him something, may I not?”. 

The rector smiled involuntarily, but shook his head 
at Gibbons. “ A shilling, ” he said, “ will pay him hand- 
somely, lam sure. . . . And now,” as Elfrida handed 
the man a coin, into the nature of which the rector for- 
tunately did not inquire, “now will you step this way?” 

“ Thank you,” said Elfrida. “ I shall be very glad to 
ask you one or two questions. The clerk told me that 
you could tell me, perhaps, about Mr. Clare, who was 
once rector of this parish. ” 

“Told you so! Why, what does this mean?” said 
the rector, turning rather sternly on his clerk, who 
looked at once angry and confused. “ Why did you not 
tell the lady what she wanted to know?” 

“He said you could tell me,” said Elfrida, upon 
whom the fasting and exhaustion were beginning to 
tell. Her head swam, and her words came faintly 
from her lips. 

“I should think I could! What do you mean. 
Gibbons? Of course I can tell you what has become of 
Austin Clare, my dear young lady, if it is he whom you 
are seeking, for I am Austin Clare myself.” 

But the revulsion of feeling was too great, and 
Elfrida fainted away on the vestry floor at the feet of 
Austin Clare. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

AT THE RECTORY. 

“ Poor young thing ! poor young thing ! What can 
be the matter with her?” said the rector, as he bent 
over Elfrida’s pro.strate form, and tried in vain to bring 
her to consciousness. “I’m afraid you are partly re- 


AT THE RECTORY. 469 

sponsible for this, Gibbons. You should have told her 
my name at once. ” 

“ Well, sir, when folks go chopping and changing 
their names there’s sure to be trouble,” said Gibbons 
stolidly. “I’ve often told you so myself, and now I 
says it again.” 

“That’s all nonsense, as you very well know !” said 
the rector sharply. He had had a fortune left him on 
condition that he took the name of White in addition 
to his own patronymic ; and Gibbons had never approved 
of the addition. It was not the first time that he had 
made mischief by professing ignorance of the name of 
Clare. “ Help me into the house with this young lady. 
I hope she will soon come round. How long has she 
- been here?” 

“Since the 12 o’clock service,” said Gibbons a little 
sulkily. He was strong and wiry in spite of his 
meagre looks, and he helped the rector to carry the 
insensible girl into the study, where she was laid on a 
sofa. Then the rector rang a bell. 

“ Stay in the vestr}*. Gibbons ; you may be wanted to 
go for the doctor,” said Mr. White, as he was generally 
designated. “ Here, Mary, I have a patient for you ; 
she has fainted, poor girl.” 

Mary was the rector’s eldest daughter, a practical, 
rosy-cheeked damsel in the neatest of cotton dresses, 
who responded with alacrity to her father’s appeal. 
“Oh, poor thing! has she fainted? We’ll vSoon bring 
her round. Fetch some water, Fanny ” — to a younger 
sister who had followed her into the study — “ and some 
salts — and the brandy. We’ll have her on the floor, 
papa — .she’ll be better there. Poor girl! did she come 
to see you? How pretty she is!” 

“ One can hardly see much of her prettiness,” said the 
rector, who was looking at Elfrida’s ghastly face with 
attention and surprise. He had once seen Anthony 
Kesterton insensible after an accident in the Highlands, 
and the face before him brought back the memory of 
his early friend. “ vShe is very like— very like — some 
one I know," 


470 


SIR Anthony’s sfxrrt. 


“ Who is she, papa?” said Mary, as she vigorously 
applied all the ordinary remedies for bringing a person 
out of a swoon. 

“ I don’t know, my dear. She will tell us that, no 
doubt, when she comes to herself. ” 

“She has a wedding-ring on!” said Fanny, with a 
note of exclamation in her voice. “And what deep 
mourning!” 

“ Hush, Fanny, she will hear you.” 

“ I don’t believe she will ; I don’t believe she is a bit 
better,” said Fanny. “ Look at her yourself, papa.” 

He looked, and was struck by the immovableness of 
the ashen-white face and the curious color of the lips. 
“I will send Gibbons for Dr. Marsh,” he said quietly. 
“ It may be something more than a fainting-fit.” 

“ We’ll get her upstairs and undress her,” said Mary, 
who was quite accustomed to strange guests, poor, sick, 
or in trouble, whom her father would bring in and 
commend to her care. “ Send Dr. Marsh up as soon as 
he comes, papa. I’ll call Hannah to help me — you 
mustn’t carry her. I wonder you got her here from 
the vestry!” 

“I and Gibbons between us,” said the rector, as he 
went out to give the old man his orders. 

“ I hope they did not stumble with her,” said Mary, 
in the maternal tone which comes naturally to the 
voice of an eldest daughter with a widowed father and 
a large family to look after. “ Run for Hannah, Fanny 
dear; poor girl, I wonder what is the matter with her.” 

Hannah, a hard-featured, kind-hearted woman who had 
been in the family for thirty-five out of her fifty years, 
came and inspected the insensible girl, and gave it as 
her opinion that it was not so much an ordinary faint- 
ing-fit as a kind of stupor, which was probably the pre- 
cursor of a serious illness. She had had so much expe- 
rience of illness that Mary looked a little sober when she 
heard this dictum, and Fanny proposed that they should 
wait until the doctor came before taking the patient 
upstairs. 

“ No, no,” said Mary, her kind heart melting at once; 


AT THE RECTORY. 


471 


“we won’t be so inhospitable, Fanny. She can easily 
be moved afterward if she is ill and we can find her 
relations. She is a lady — that is quite easy to see.” 

“Ladies ain’t always as good as they ought to be,” 
said Hannah dryly. “ However, lend a hand here. Miss 
Mary; its the blue-room she’s to go to, I suppose.” 

And so the three women passed out of the rector’s 
study, and went up the stairs, bearing their burden to 
a bright little room looking out on the back of the 
house. 

The doctor, who was at home by happy chance when 
the rector’s summons came, soon presented himself, 
and examined Elfrida very carefully. Like Hannah, 
he was of opinion that she was not in an ordinary swoon, 
but at present, he said, it was impossible to tell. Where 
did she come from ? where were her friends? She ought 
to* be sent back to them without delay, for it was quite 
likely that fever and brain disturbance might supervene, 
which would render it impossible for her to be removed. 

“ But we don’t know who she is,” said Mary. “ She 
came to see father and fell down suddenly like this.” 

“Well, surely you can find out her name, can’t you?” 
said the doctor, who was an intimate friend and privi- 
leged to scold or laugh or remonstrate, as he pleased. 
“ So clever a young lady as you, Mary, can’t fail to 
ferret it out. Where’s her pocket-handkerchief? Isn’t 
her linen marked?” 

“Yes, ‘E. P. ’ But that doesn’t tell us much, doctor. 
And here are the things that were in her pocket, but I 
have not liked to look at them. Here is papa — shall we 
look at these things in the poor girl’s pocket, papa?” 

“ We must know her name if we can ; there can be no 
doubt about our duty in the matter,” said the doctor 
brusquely; and then he took up the handkerchief and 
the purse. “H’m! a dainty bit of stuff — embroidered 
‘E. P. ’ Suppose you make a list of the things, Mary. 
There’s a pencil. One embroidered handkerchief, one 
Russian-leather purse, containing — ah — gold, I see, 
twelve pounds in gold; h’m-m-m! seven shillings and 
sixpence in silver, threepence-halfpence in bronze; two 


472 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


keys, an envelope and paper — crumpled, writing upon 
it. This is the clue perhaps.” 

The doctor read what was written with compressed 
lips, then raised his eyebrows and looked at the rec- 
tor. “This is your affair, I think,” he said. “Shall 
I read it aloud? It’s no secret, I fancy, and if it is, we 
are all three to be trusted. ” 

“Yes, read it. Marsh,” said the rector gently. 

The paper was the one which Mr. Watson had left for 
Elfrida’s use. The doctor read the superscription 
first: “ ‘To be given at my death to Miss Elfrida Pas- 
ton, now resident at Kesterton Park, Kesterton, South- 
shire. ’ The date is some years back, I see. You knew 
Anthony Kesterton once, didn’t you, Austin?” Then 
he read the inclosure — that if Elfrida Paston should 
ever find herself in trouble or perplexity, she was to 
apply to the Reverend Austin Clare, once curate of vSt. 
George’s, Bloomsbury, and since then rector of St. 
Fillan’s-in-the-South, Bishopsgate Street. “ This must 
be what brought her here, then,” said the doctor, looking 
again toward his friend. “ This girl is Elfrida Paston. 
Where have I heard the name?” 

Mr. White’s hands were trembling a little, and his 
fine face worked nervously. “I think I understand,” 
he said. “ Poor girl ! poor girl ! And to think that she 
was nearly turned from my door by that meddlesome 
old fool. Gibbons! Mary, my dear, there can be no 
hesitation about our keeping her. She comes from an 
old friend of mine. Poor old Watson, who wrote this 
paper, was very helpful to me in my younger days. I 
shall accept the poor child as a precious charge from 
him. Go and look after her, my dear; she may be 
wanting you.” 

Only when Mary was well out of hearing did the 
rector turn to his friend and say, with a shake of his 
head, “I fear also that this is Anthony Kesterton ’s 
daughter under another name. ” 

“ Why do you say that?” 

“ Partly because of the likeness. The girl is the 
image of him. ‘Elfrida’ was a family name of the Kes- 


AT Tiir. RECTOkV. ^ 473 

terton’s. Paston may be her husband ’vS name — Mary 
says she wears a wedding-ring. ” 

“But this letter was addressed to ‘Miss Elfrida Pas- 
ton.’ No, no, it can’t be her married name! Now 
where have I heard the name before? I have it!’’ said 
the doctor, with a little smile. “ Did you not see some 
mention of a disputed succession case in the papers a 
little while ago? It never got into the courts, but it 
has been a good deal talked of in .society papers — ’’ 

“ My dear Marsh, I never read society papers.’’ 

“ Ah, no ; but even in ordinary papers there has been 
some mention of it. And then there was an advertise- 
ment for a record of the marriage, if ever it had taken 
place, betv/een Anthony Kesterton and some woman — I 
forget her name.” 

“ Mary Derrick,” said the rector, quickly. “ Yes, that 
was the entry she was trying to find in the registry of 
marriages.” 

“Ah! Well, all we can do,” said the doctor, rising, 
“ is to watch for signs of returning consciousness on 
Miss Paston ’s part. vShe must not be left alone for a 
moment. Can Mary undertake that? vShall I send in 
a nurse?” 

“ For the night-work, perhaps. In the daytime the 
girls will manage it all. Poor young lady! I wonder 
Avhether her friends have missed her yet, and where they 
are. I wish we could relieve their anxiety.” 

“ We shall probably see an advertisement in a day or 
two — or you might send one yourself to the daily papers, ” 
said Dr. Marsh. “ But I would wait imtil to-morrow. 
vShc may come to herself and be able to give you 
her address. I’ll see Mary again, please, before I 
leave. ” 

He saw Mary, and gave her various directions, then 
went away promising to send a nurse before night- 
time, and telling her to keep the patient x^erfectly quiet. 

When the morning came without any sign of con- 
scious life, Mr. White debated anxiously with the 
doctor as to whether any advertisement should be put 
in the paper. But he was counselled to wait yet an- 


414 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


other day, in expectation of some printed notice of a 
young lady’s “ disappearance. ” 

Of course none came. Philip was the only person at 
present who had any interest in Elfrida’s doings, and 
her message to him, through Mrs. Graves, gave him 
some reason to suppose that she was safe and knew 
what she was doing. But on the third day of her 
absence he set to work to investigate the City churches, 
for to one of these he gathered from M^s. Graves’ report 
that she had gone. As it happened, however; he began 
with all the wrong ones first, and only reached St. 
Fillan’s at the very end of his search. 

Elfrida’s illness did not turn to brain fever, as the 
doctor had at first anticipated. On the third day the 
stupor yielded; she opened her eyes and looked with 
bewilderment on the kind faces of the fair-haired girls 
about her and the pretty furnishings of the dainty 
room. “Where am I?” she said. 

“You are with friends, dear,’’ Mary answered, sooth- 
ingly, “ and we are taking good care of you. Take a 
little of this and go to sleep ; you had better not talk 
just yet. ’’ 

She gave her some nourishment, which the girl took 
obediently. Then Elfrida sank into a restful and nat- 
ural slumber, and Mary, leaving the nurse in charge, 
went to report to her father the change that had taken 
place in the patient’s condition. 

For two or three days afterward she was too weak to 
say much ; but at last she began to ask questions. 

“ Do you mind,’’ she said one day to Mary, with the 
prettiest accent of wistfulness in the world, “ do you 
mind telling me who you are?’’ 

“ Of course, dear. I am Mary White, and my father 
is a clergyman.’’ 

“ But how do you come to be taking care of me?’’ 

“You came to see my father, and fainted while you 
were talking to him. vSo we brought you here and took 
care of you a little. You are better now, you see.’’ 

“ But when — when was that?” said Elfrida, a look of 
trouble showing itself on her wasted features. 


AT THE RECTORY. 


475 


“ Only a little while ag-o — not long. ” Mary had been 
cautioned against telling the patient too much. 

“Not long,” Elfrida repeated, dreamily. Then, in a 
livelier voice, “ But why did I want to see your father? 
I don’t think I know any Mr. White.” 

“ No, dear, but he used to be called Mr. Clare — Austin 
Clare — and you came to him. ” 

“ Oh, yes, I remember — I remember. I was to go to 
him in any trouble or perplexity, was I not?” 

“ Yes, dear; and he will help you if he can.” 

There was a little silence, during which Mary saw 
some tears slip slowly down on the girl’s pale cheeks. 
But she sedulously devoted herself to her knitting, and 
took no notice. Presently Elfrida spoke again. 

“ I am in great trouble and perplexity, I think. 
Could I see your father and talk to him?” 

“ Had you not better wait until you are a little 
stronger, dear?” 

“ Oh, no ; I would rather see him now. How long is 
it exactly since I was taken ill?” 

“ Five days, ” said Mary, rather reluctantly. 

“ Five days ! And nobody will know what has become 
of me,” she said, lifting her head, with dilated eyes 
and flushing cheeks. 

“ We will let them know, dear. Don’t worry your- 
self, and it will be all right,” said placid, comfortable 
Mary. “ Shall I send a letter or a telegram anywhere?” 

“ I would rather see Mr. Clare first, ” said Elfrida, 
sinking back upon her pillows with a wearied look. “ I 
know he will tell me what I ought to do. ” 

Mary went at once to her father, and told him what 
had passed. The account brought the rector-at once 
to Elfrida ’s room, where, sitting down by her bed, he 
took her hand gently in his and asked her how she felt. 

“Oh, I am quite well now, thank you,” she said, 
rather feverishly, “ and I think I ought to get up and not 
trouble you any longer.” 

“ But you are not troubling us at all, my dear child. 
Your friend, Mr. Watson, who sent you to me, was an 
old friend of mine, and I shall be pleased if I can do 


476 SIR Anthony’s secret. 

anything for one in whom he was interested. Suppose 
you tell me your name and your history, and see 
whether I can help you. ” 

“I don’t think any one can help me,” said Elfrida. 
The tears of weakness rose to her eyes as she spoke. 

“Can I not send word to your home where you are? 
You must have friends who are anxious about you now. ” 
“ Only one,” she breathed rather than spoke. 

“ But that one, my dear?” 

“It is my husband,” said Elfrida faintly. “His 
name is Philip Winyates. He does not know where I 
am. But I think it would be better that he should not 
know. He does not want me now. ” 

And then she turned so faint and seemed so much 
exhausted that Mr. White refused to continue the con- 
versation until the morrow. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE rector’s story. 

But on the morrow she would not be denied. She 
was evidently stronger, and she insisted upon seeing 
the rector once again. 

“ I will not be so silly as I was yesterday,” she said 
bravely. “I don’t know how it is that I am so weak. 
I will do better to-day.” 

“ Well, I hope so. But you must not tire or excite 
yourself, Mrs. Winyates — ” 

He used the name purposely. Elfrida flushed all 
over, and then turned very pale. 

“Oh, please call me Elfrida!” she cried almost child- 
ishly. 

“ Elfrida, then. It is a name I have often heard be- 
fore — when I was younger. There was a celebrated 
beauty in the Kesterton family, of whom I have heard 
Sir Anthony speak — ” 

“Oh, you knew him — you knew him? That makes it 
much easier to speak to you, I want to tell you about 


THE RECTOR’S STORY. 


477 


myself, if I may. My mother’s name was Mary Derrick 
— my father’s — ” 

“Was Anthony Kesterton, of course,’’ as she paused 
in some agitation. “ Well, my dear?” 

“ But why do you say, of course?” she asked anxiously. 

“ I gather it from the circumstances, ” he answered, 
smiling. “ Mary Derrick was the maiden name of Sir 
Anthony’s first wife.” 

“ But how — how do you know? It is what we have 
been trying to find out — for so long — whether he 
married her. Oh, do tell me how you know!” 

“ I know,” said Mr. White quietly, “ because I married 
them.” 

“ You married them? And you are sure — sure — ” 

“ Sure as the law could make us. My dear, do not 
excite yourself. How is it that you have not known of 
this before? Are you the only child of the marriage?” 

But to this question Elfrida responded only by a pas- 
sionate flood of tears. “ Henry — it is Henry I am 
thinking of,” she said at last, when she was able to 
speak distinctly. “ If he were only here ! Oh, why — 
why did I not come to you before!” 

Little by little she poured the story of her mother’s 
and brother’s lives into his ears : her own she kept in 
the background, for she was more anxious to let him 
hear of the two whose lives had been spoiled and ruined 
by Sir Anthony’s silence than of herself. Her own 
story she could tell him later ; at present she did not 
want to speak of it. 

The rector listened with deep attention and gather- 
ing indignation. 

“ But, my dear girl,” he exclaimed more than once, 
“Anthony Kesterton must have been mad!” And when 
the coil went on unravelling itself and Lady Kesterton ’s 
denial of the story was told, he shook his white head 
with a sadness which he evidently could not put into 
words. When Elfrida had finished speaking he kept 
silence for a minute or two. 

“You have had a hard trial, my dear,” he said very 
kindly, at last, 


478 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“Oh, I have, I have!” sobbed Elfrida, the very foun- 
dations of her nature seeming to be broken up by the 
sympathy and comprehension with which her story had 
been met. “ It has been far worse than I can ever tell. 
Nobody understands: I have lost everything in life I 
care for: I wish I could die!” 

“ But you have your husband!” 

“ He does not love me. He cares for some one else. 
And there is some one that I — I thought I was going to 
marry — before him. It was that wretched secret of 
Sir Anthony’s that spoiled our lives. If we had known, 
everything would have been so different!” 

“ We must try to mend matters now,” said the rector 
gently. 

“ It is no good. What is done cannot be undone. My 
mother died of a broken heart; my brother was a 
cripple nearly all his life and died with a shadow of 
disgrace over him. What is the use of trying to put 
things right now?” 

“You care for their reputations, surely. You are 
happy to be able to do so much. You can lift up their 
names out of the mire, and show tliat they are worthy 
of respect. That is surely a great work for you to be 
able to do.” 

He had touched the right chord. Elfrida’ s agitation 
became less. She listened with more patience than she 
had done. “You will help me?” she said. “And will 
you not tell me — how — how it happened that you came 
to marry them?” 

“I was in the Highlands,” said Mr. White, “with a 
party of young men, whom I was coaching, when I 
came across Anthony Kesterton, whom I had known at 
Oxford. He seemed flushed and excited, and drew me 
aside at once, telling me that he had something im- 
portant to say. It was this — my dear, you must forgive 
me if I hurt your feelings — he was at a village inn with 
Mary Derrick, whom he had persuaded to leave her 
home under a promise of marriage. She learned 
—too late— that he did not mean to perform that 
promise, ” 


THE rector’s story. 


479 

Elfrida hid her face. The story was more painful than 
she thought it would be. 

“I believe,” said the rector slowly, “that this poor 
girl, Mary Derrick, had a pure and loving nature, and 
that she had been persuaded with great difficulty to 
travel to Scotland in order to meet him at Perth. He 
had contrived this, because he wished to baffle pursuit 
or avoid discovery. He met her at Perth, and at once 
took her off to this remote Highland inn, where he 
expected that she, having no resources, would dispense 
with the ceremony of marriage, and become his mis- 
press — not his wife. But Mary Derrick, it seems, was 
vSO horrified by this discovery that she fell into a violent 
fit of hysterics, then into one fainting-fit after another. 
The landlady and other women had to be called into 
council ; and in order to give a suitable pretext for her 
presence there he called her Ifis wife. She continued 
in this hysterical state for some hours ; and on seeing 
me he at once seized upon me to know if I understood 
what he called the ins and outs of the ‘accursed Scottish 
laws’ about marriage. You know, I dare say, that if 
two persons call themselves man and wife before wit- 
nesses in Scotland they may be held as legally mar- 
ried?” 

“ Yes, I know.” 

“ He wanted to know if he had committed himself to 
this.” 

“Ah, he did not wish to marry her, after all!” said 
Elfrida, in a tone of sharp pain. • 

“Well — at first — he made difficulties. But after a 
little conversation, my dear child, he came to a some- 
what better mind, and consented to allow me to join 
them in the bonds of, I fear, a not very happy married 
life. I married them a few days later in the inn par- 
lor, with the landlady and one or two people from the 
village as witnesses. The marriage was registered in 
the usual way, and you could obtain a copy of the cer- 
tificate any time by applying to the authorities of the 
district.” 

“ Did Sir Anthony ask you to keep it a secret?” 


4§0 SIR ANTHONY^S SECREt. 

“ Not exactly. He intimated that he did not wish 
the marriag-e talked about, but would divulge it when 
he saw fit. I saw John Watson about it once, but 
Watson had promised not to tell until Sir Anthony gave 
him leave. And I believe he exacted a promise from 
his poor wife that she also would not betray the secret. 
He put it on the ground of his mother’s objection to 
a marriage beneath him. I heard of the first Lady 
Kesterton’s death and of his remarriage through my 
friend Watson; but he wrote little and infrequently; 
and when I heard a few months ago that Sir Anthony 
was dead and the title had devolved upon the son, I 
took it for granted that it was all right, and that either 
your mother had had no boys, or that her son had suc- 
ceeded.” 

“ Did you know that she had ever had any children?” 

“I baptized you, my dear. That was when your 
mother was living in London, some time before old 
Lady Kesterton’s death. Your father took her away to 
Southshire rather suddenly, and, owing to the fact that 
I was pressing him to make his marriage public, he 
quarrelled with me, unfortunately, and said that he 
would never speak to me again. When I heard that he 
had taken his wife to Kesterton, I simply believed that 
he took her there as his wife. I am deeply grieved 
now to learn that this was not the case.” 

“ He was wicked — wicked !” said Elfrida, with passion. 
“ He had no love for any of us — no pity. Poor Henry 
used always to say that he was kind and good at heart ; 
but he never showed his kindness to me.” 

“ And you say your father meant to tell all the world 
on your twenty-first birthday, but was prevented. Ah 
sometimes God does not permit us to make atonements ; 
it is one of His ways of punishing wrong-doing,” said 
the rector gravely. “ But, my dear, you, as Sir An- 
thony’s daughter, must remember that such was his 
intention, and judge him accordingly.” 

Elfrida made no answer in words, but the little shake 
of her head was more expressive than words could be. 

“You must learn to forgive,” said the old man, in 


THE rector’s story. 481 

his gentle tones. “ Else how can you ask for forgive- 
ness? And now, my child, there is business to be done. 
Will you give me your husband’s address, and let me 
communicate with him? Surely he must be suffering 
tortures of anxiety on your account.” 

“I don’t think so. I think he will be glad,” mur- 
mured Elfrida. But she added the address almost im- 
mediately. 

“ I will telegraph to him,” said the rector. 

“ Not to come here! Not to see me!” 

“ Not to see his wife?” 

“No, no! I can’t bear it yet. I don’t want him to 
come. Oh, let me tell you — ” 

“Tell me the rest of your story another day,” said 
Mr. White soothingly. “At present I am sure you 
have had enough talking. Your husband shall not see 
you unless you wish. When you are stronger, perhaps 
you will be able to meet him. Now I will send Mary 
to you, and say good-by. ” 

He did so, and then went downstairs, intending to 
look for one of his younger daughters and with her aid 
concoct a telegram to send to Philip Winyates. But his 
intention was frustrated. A servant met him with the 
news that Mr. Winyates was waiting for him in the 
study. 

The'rector’s face was a trifle sad and severe as he 
entered the study. Elfrida’s shrinking from her hus- 
band had not predisposed him in Philip’s favor. It 
seemed to him that a man could not have been a kind 
or loving husband when a wife displayed such dread of 
a meeting with him. And then he thought that if Mr. 
Winyates had been very anxious to find her, he might 
have found her before now. So there was a little aus- 
terity in the manner with which he greeted his visitor. 

But a glance at Philip’s worn and haggard face went 
far toward dispelling the prejudice that he had formed. 
The younger man had been standing, but advanced to- 
ward the rector with some eagerness when he entered 
the room. 

“ I beg your pardon for troubling you,” he said, with 
31 


482 


SIR ANTHONY^S SECRET. 


a nervous twitching of the lips which he could not con- 
trol ; “ but I have heard that you have a lady staying 
with you — a lady — ” 

“Sit down, Mr. Winyates,” said the rector gravely. 
“ I was just on the point of telegraphing to you, as your 
wife has this moment given me your address. She has 
been ill, and not able to speak much before to-day.” 

His previous suspicions were very much modified 
when he saw the man sit down suddenly, as if his strength 
had failed him, clasp his hands over his working feat- 
ures, and give vent to one or two of those choking sobs 
which are only heard from men in an agony of pain — = 
or of relief from pain. “Thank God!” came between 
the gasps. The rector was glad of that. He put his 
hand on Philip’s shoulder. 

“Thank God, indeed’” he said. “She has been ill; 
we feared that she might have brain fever. But we 
have safely tided over the danger now.*’ 

“ I must thank you, too — you have been good to her, I 
know,” said Philip, raising his head. “ But I have had 
a bad time — a very bad time,” he added, apologetically. 

“ You had no idea where she had gone?” 

“ Not the least in the world! The landlady gave me 
a sort of confused message from her — that she did not 
know when she would be back; but, of course, I ex- 
pected her that evening. All that the woman knew 
was that she had spoken of some church in the City. 1 
have been trying ever since to find out what that church 
was, on the chance of finding her. I only found yours 
to-day; and your clerk told me that a lady had -been 
here, and had been taken into your house on the day 
that Elfrida left home. So I came to you — although I 
had almost lost heart. ” 

“ She came to me because of a paper which she had 
found in her desk — a few lines from Mr. Watson, of 
Southborough, recommending her to apply to me in case 
of need. I presume that Watson, knowing her true 
name and history, had a premonition of evil, and there- 
fore put a weapon into her hand. I am sorry that she 
did not use it before her poor brother was gone,” 


THE rector’s story. 


483 


“A weapon ! What — what can that mean?” 

“ It means, Mr. Winyates, that Mr. Watson knew 
that I was the man who married Sir Anthony Kesterton 
to Mary Derrick, the parents of Henry and Elfrida 
Kesterton.” 

“ You — married them ! Then the story was true?” 

“ You doubted it?” 

“ I did not know what to think. I never doubted 
Henry’s word, but I thought that he might have con- 
fused the facts, Elfrida — my wife — will be rejoiced 
indeed.” 

“ Rejoiced in a sense, but with an admixture of 
sorrow, Mr. Winyates.” 

“Yes, yes; poor Henry!” 

Philip was vaguely conscious of some undefined cold- 
ness in the rector’s manner, also of a certain expec- 
tancy, as if he were still awaiting some speech which 
Philip had not made and ought to make. It was per- 
haps the inquiry that now fell from his lips : 

“ Can I see my' wife?” 

“ I am afraid that she is scarcely strong enough to 
see you to-day.” 

“ But — you have seen her?” 

“ Yes, and tired her out, I fear. But I have a great 
deal to tell you, Mr. Winyates. I should like you to 
hear the whole story, and then you can decide what 
had better be done in your wife’s interests.” 

“ Yes, yes ! of course I am anxious about all that for 
her sake ; but — first of all, I should like to see her — I 
must see her — just for two minutes.” 

“ I am afraid you must be patient, Mr. Winyates.” 

“ But just to look at her ! Not to speak, not to” — Philip 
broke off at this point, for he noticed a singular expres- 
sion on the rector’s face. He burst forth with a ques- 
tion : “ Is there any special reason why I should not go 
to her?” 

“Just this,” said his host kindly; “she is very weak, 
and she has asked that she may be allowed to gain a 
little strength before she receives you. ” 

“ You mean that she has refused to see me?” 


484 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ Only for a day or two,” said the rector, rather dep- 
recatingly ; but he was taken aback by the effect of his 
communication, for Philip Winyates turned to the 
mantel-piece so as to conceal his face while murmur- 
ing— 

“ My God, what a fool I have been ! But this I did 
not deserve!” 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

RIVALS AND ENEMIES. 

“Tell me all,” Philip said at length. “What has 
she said of me? I have been thoughtless, I confess; 
but I have never ceased to love her for a moment. 
Why does she refuse to see me?” 

“Mrs. Winyates seems to think,” said the rector, 

“ that you ceased to regard her with affection — ” 

“ And does she care?” cried Philip. 

“ Certainly she cares. My dear sir, you and your 
wife seem to be involved in complete misunderstanding 
of each other’s motives. I have not had much conver- 
sation with your wife on the subject; but I certainly 
gathered from her that she was much grieved and pained 
by your want of love for her.” 

“ Ah 1 But that may not mean that she cares for me !” 

“At any rate,” said the rector, “I think you had 
better defer any attempt to see her to-day.” 

“ Of course — of course ; I would not try to go near 
her. But if you have any influence over her, sir, may 
I beg you to use it in my favor?” 

“ I will if you can assure me that your wife has no 
cause for her want of faith in you.” 

Philip groaned. “She thinks she has, I’m afraid; 
but it is not true. If only you would tell her so, per- 
haps she would believe you. I swear to you that I have 
no love for any one but herself. I have never been 
guilty of a moment’s unfaithfulness to her, even in 
thought. If onl}^ I could see her, I think I could con- 
vince her of that— if she would but let me talk to her 
about it. But I never knew she cared, ” 


RIVALS AND ENEMIES. 


485 


The conversation was interrupted by the ringing of a 
bell, which Mr. White interpreted to mean dinner-tea; 
and he invited Philip most cordially to remain. His 
prejudice had melted away completely, and he was as 
ready to take Philip’s affairs into his keeping and con- 
sideration as Elfrida’s. It was not the first time that 
he had been the recipient of confidences from husband 
and wife, and had tried to make peace between them. 
He was hopeful of putting things right now ; and after 
tea he got Philip back to his study and had a long talk 
with him about Elfrida and the circumstances of her 
marriage. Philip, for his part, was absolutely unre- 
served, and to the rector he unfolded a story his wife 
had never heard; the story of his dead love for Lady 
Beltane, and of the way in which she had kept him 
dangling at her side for so many years, until it seemed 
as if the pith of his manhood had been taken out of him. 
And then, he told of the way in which Elfrida had 
roused him, and, though she did not love him, had sent 
him forth to lead a new and higher life ; then of her 
consent to marry him when Lord Beaulieu had slighted 
her, and of the months of married life that had followed. 
And then — then — 

Philip faltered here, with the sense that there was 
something to tell which he would rather have left unsaid. 

“ The lady of whom you speak,” said the old clergy- 
man, gently, “ of course you have not seen her more 
than was unavoidable since your marriage?” 

“Ah, that’s just what I have done!” Philip burst 
forth ; and then he told the rest of his story. 

Mr. White was pretty well prepared for Elfrida’s ver- 
sion of the same events when he visited her next day. 
But, somewhat to his surprise, he had great difficulty 
in getting her to talk of her married life. 

“ My dear,” he said at last, “ I think I must tell you 
that I have seen your husband. ” 

“ Seen — Philip?” 

“Yes; he has been here. He traced you himself, 
without my having to send a telegram. He went to 
every church in the City, I believe,” 


486 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


She showed only a languid interest. 

“ He is very much worn out by his efforts. He has 
been straining every nerve to find you.” 

“You really think he cared? — ’’with a fine, sceptical 
smile. 

“ My dear, ” said the rector, laying his hand on hers, 
“when I think of the ‘Thank God!’ that came from his 
lips as soon as he knew that you were here — and safe ; 
when I remember the tears that fell from his eyes as he 
uttered that thanksgiving, I cannot help but think that 
he loves his wife more dearly than any one in the 
world.” 

She seemed a little moved and surprised. 

“ I suppose I do not understand men,” she said, some- 
what pathetically. “They seem able to do things 
which to me would be like treason — and think nothing 
of it. I am sure I should not care to talk to any other 
man (if I loved my husband) — or to sit holding his 
hand — or anything — ” 

Her voice trembled ; she put up her hand to brush 
the moisture from her eyes. 

“ I know what you are alluding to, my dear ; but 
your husband has assured me that what you objected to 
will never happen again.” 

“ It ought never to have happened at all,” she cried, 
with sudden fire. “ It never would have happened if 
he had loved me — never, never, never!” 

“ Do you care so much, then, for his love?” said the 
rector, keenly. 

“ I do not care at all,” she said; and then burst into 
passionate tears that belied her words. But she would 
say nothing more. And she would not see her husband. 

The doctor advised that she should not be distressed 
or forced into anything distasteful to her until she was 
stronger; and therefore she was for the present let 
alone. Mr. White assured Philip that it was a pleasure 
to him to keep Elfrida with him; the girls had all 
fallen in love with her, and he hoped that she would 
stay as long as possible. And he also hinted that it 
would be advisable never to take her back to Taviton 


RIVALS AND ENEMIES. 


487 


Square, to the house which was so full of bitter memo- 
ries to her, but to provide some pleasanter dwelling- 
place, where she might gently recover from the effects 
of the pains and perils of the past. 

“Will she ever come back to me?” said Philip sadly. 

“ Of course she will. It is only a question of time.” 

“ I should be only too glad to provide a pleasant house 
if I knew that she would come to it. But in the present 
uncertainty — it is difficult — ” 

“Well, at any rate,” said the rector, with a smile, 
“ when she comes into her fortune she will be able to 
live where she pleases. Seventy thousand pounds, at 
least, is it not? I should advise yop to take her abroad. ” 

“I shall not live on my wife’s money/’ said Philip 
shortly. 

“Ah, my dear Winyates, if you and your wife truly 
love one another, it will not matter very much to you 
whether the money was yours or hers. I married a 
rich woman,” the old man went on simply, “but we 
never had a moment’s ill-feeling as to which side the 
money came from. If a man and woman are truly 
united, truly one^ there can be no jarring over trifles of 
that sort.” 

In spite of the rector’s brave words, however, he 
was rather less confident than he appeared. Elfrida’s 
feeling against her husband was very strong ; and as 
long as she refused to see him he did not know how the 
breach was to be repaired. He had promised her that 
Philip should not be brought into her presence against 
her will, and he did not think himself justified in coun- 
tenancing amiable wiles on the part of his daughters, 
who wanted very much to bring the husband and wife 
face to face, even against their will. 

But although the rector of St. Fillan’s-in-the-South 
was not going to break his promise for any man or 
woman, there were things which he deemed himself at 
liberty to do in order to forward a reconciliation be- 
tween Philip and Elfrida. And he had his own little 
plot at heart, which he did not divulge to every one. 

Elfrida was so much stronger that she could sit up in 


488 


sik Anthony’s sficuET. 


an arm-chair in the pretty little sitting-room, on the 
same floor with her • bedroom, which had been appro- 
priated to her use. She was strangely and -persistently 
weak, however. But she was just well enough to enjoy 
the petting that the girls lavished upon her, and the 
flowers they brought her, and the pleasant gossip with 
which they entertained her from time to time. 

One afternoon, however^ they pleaded engagements 
of various kinds, and asked if she would mind being 
left alone. She did not mind it at all, and, as she was 
supplied with the most recent novel, and a little dainty 
4 o’clock tea, she resigned herself to laziness and 
quiet. • 

She was trying sedulously to fix her mind on the 
woes of the heroine of her book, but not with great 
success, when the door behind her opened softly and 
closed again. She thought that it was the maid come 
for the tea-tray, and did not look up until the rustle of 
a silk-lined skirt betrayed the presence of a well- 
dressed woman and not a maid-servant. Then she 
.started forward as if she could not believe her eyes. 
For the woman who stood before her was her old enemy, 
Beatrice, Lady Beltane. 

Elfrida started to her feet. 

“Don’t get up,” said Lady Beltane, imperturbably. 
“I did not mean to disturb you. Sit down; I won’t 
stay more than five minutes. ” 

“ This is an intrusion — an impertinence !” said Elfrida, 
breathing very quickly, and stretching out her hand to 
the bell. 

“You needn’t ring,” said her visitor. “I thought 
you worrld ; so I told them that if they heard a ring 
they need not mind it — I would let myself out. It is 
your host, your pet parson, your deus ex machind^ who 
has sent .me up here — Mr. White, Mr. Clare, whatever 
his name is. Yes, he told me to come, so you need not 
try to send me away. I am an authorized intruder.” 

Elfrida was of a passionate nature ; and she wished 
most heartily at that moment that she could strike the 
woman before her to the earth or turn her bodily out of 


RIVALS AND ENEMIES. 


489 


the room. That was the first wild impulse. Then she 
recollected herself, and was ashamed. But above every- 
thing she became conscious of her great physical weak- 
ness; for the slight exertion of rising, together with 
the surprise of seeing Lady Beltane, had been too much 
for her, and she sank back in her chair, white, gasping, 
and on the point of a fainting-fit. 

“Good gracious!” said Lady Beltane. “I did not 
mean to upset you like this. Where are your smelling- 
salts? There, are you better now? Dab your forehead 
with this eau-de-Cologne — is that all right?” 

Elfrida found herself compelled to say “ Thank you,” 
for Lady Beltane fulfilled the duties of a nurse with 
wonderful dexterity. When at last she could murmur, 
“ I am better now, ” Lady Beltane put down the smelling- 
bottle and eyed her with good-humored scrutiny. 

“You do look ill!” she said at length. “You’ve had 
a bad time, have you not? Mr. White told me. I 
thought T should like to see you for five minutes. You 
might give me that much of your attention. ” 

She stood regarding Elfrida curiously, and Elfrida 
returned the gaze with a sort of helplessness. What 
could she, in her weak and wavering state, do against 
this brilliant, successful, self-assured woman of the 
world, who had so easily obtained the mastery of her? 

“ You look worse than I thought you would,” said she 
at length. “ Worse, in the sense of prostration, I mean. 
I don’t think you have lost your good looks. May I sit 
down? Mr. White came to see me three days ago.” 

Elfrida’ s pale cheeks crimsoned, but she did not speak. 

“ He’s quite a saint, that old man, isn’t he?” said 
Lady Beltane carelessly. “ You can’t think how nicely 
he spoke ; made me feel quite a sinner for a little bit. 
I did not give in to him, however. I sent the poor old 
thing away in quite a depressed frame of mind, I be- 
lieve ; but afterward I thought over what he said, you 
know. And then I made up my mind that I would 
come to see you. ” 

Elfrida found her voice at last, “ I do not want to 
hear — anything,” she said. 


490 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ Not even that you are a very great fool?” said Lady 
Beltane good-naturedly. “Now listen to me, Elfrida 
Winyates — Elfrida Kesterton, as I suppose you ought 
to have been called in the old days. I acknowledge that 
we all behaved shamefully to you. Betty’s nearly 
breaking her heart over it now. But we were in a 
difficult position as well as you. We did not really 
know anything about you. You came among us at 
Kesterton Park as a stranger — young, friendless, name- 
less, perhaps, and dangerously pretty. You took — I 
don’t say by unfair means — Beaulieu’s heart away from 
Betty, and Philip’s from me. Looking at the thing all 
round, don’t you think it was only human nature for 
us to hate you?” 

“ Betty didn’t,” said Elfrida, almost childishly. 

“ No, Betty didn’t; but she’s a baby. I am a woman, 
coming to the end of my tether, getting older and uglier 
every year; and I resented your triumph.” 

“ But you are married, and Philip Winyates is not 
your husband.” 

“No, little innocency ; but I never loved my husband, 
and I loved Philip. I can confess it now, because — yes, 
this is true; I have ceased to care for him. I resign 
him to you!” 

“ Because you are tired of him ! Thank you— I cannot 
accept my husband at your hands,” cried the girl, with 
an intensity which thrilled even the nerves of the 
usually impassive Lady Beltane. She looked up with 
a strange gleam in her beautiful blue eyes. 

“You mistake,” she said. “I am doing only what 
necessity forces upon me, whether I like or not. I 
never had the slightest hold upon him from the moment 
you appeared upon the scene. Philip has never wavered 
in his allegiance to you for my sake from that moment 
to this. So much I can confidently assure you,” 


RECONCILIATION. 


491 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

RECONCILIATION. 

Elfrida could not hear this assurance without agita- 
tion. In spite of her desire to appear calm, her eyes 
dilated, her breath came fast, and her hands clutched 
the sides of the arm-chair in which she sat. Lady Bel- 
tane, who had seated herself opposite to her and con- 
tinued to observe her with great attention, noted these 
signs of troubled feeling and pursued her speech. 

“ I tell you frankly I have tried all I know to win him 
back again. I will tell you everything — don’t ask me 
why: it is because I choose. Before you came, I knew 
his love for me had long been dead. It died very soon 
after my marriage, although we kept up a pretext of 
flirtation and love-making. But it was a chain that soon 
galled him. I knew well enough that he did not care 
for me long — long before he fell in love with you.” 

“ Then why — why — ” 

“Why prolong the agony? Well, I liked to think 
that I had some power. I liked the world to believe 
that there was a great deal more behind our friendship 
than appeared on the surface. But there was nothing 
behind. The facts were these: Philip had been jilted 
by me before I married Beltane ; and when I met him 
after my marriage I wanted to subjugate him again. 
But it was a very short and incomplete subjugation. ” 
And Beatrice shrugged her shoulders, perhaps to hide 
a momentary thrill of pain. 

“Was it all— a pretext, then? Was there nothing in 
what the world said?” asked Elfrida. 

“ Nothing on his side, my dear. He cared no more 
for me than for the kitchen-maid. He was sorry for 
me because I was unhappy — you know he could not be 
ungentle to a woman. But he did not love me, though 
I — yes, I will tell you all — though I — loved him.” 

“ You love him still!” said Elfrida, below her breath. 
She was sorry that she had said the words when she 
saw Lady Beltane’s face. 


492 Sir antho^ty*s secret. 

“Let sleeping dogs lie,” said Beatrice, after a rno^ 
ment’s pause. “ There is not much need to go into viy 
feelings, is there? It is his you care about. I asked 
him to run away with me once. Yes, child, don’t look 
so shocked, I did. And he refused. I was then so 
angry that I vowed to be revenged on you — that was 
all. Now do you understand?” 

Elfrida’s lips framed the one word “ When?” 

“When? Oh, you mean when did I make that dis- 
graceful offer of mine? At Kesterton Park, my dear, 
before you were engaged to him. He repulsed me — 
kindly, you know, but firmly, as people say. I tried to 
make it up with him at the ball — you remember? But 
after that time I scarcely spoke to him (except once to 
promise to love his wife — a nice little falsehood, wasn’t 
it?) until after your brother’s death, when I came with 
Betty.” 

“ And then?” 

“Then I tried the old dodge, dear; I pretended to 
sympathize with him over an unloving wife. But that 
wouldn’t do. He would not hear a word against you. 
That was when we used to sit downstairs in the dining- 
room and talk. We talked of nothing but you. I had 
begun to be tired of it when you turned the tables on 
me so nicely by inviting me to call on you. Then I 
thought I would make my last try — I would talk about 
myself. I wrote to him that I was very miserable, and 
would he meet me in the Square — you know when ! 
Meeting in the Square! Rather like a servant-girl’s 
proceeding, wasn’t it?” 

“Oh, go on!” said Elfrida. 

“You impatient girl! Well, I met him, and I talked 
about Beltane’s unkindness and my misery, and all the 
rest of it. It was then that you saw us together. You 
need not have been jealous. He was giving me the 
prosiest, most didactic lecture that was ever poured into 
a woman’s ear — all about my duty to my husband! 
You might have heard every word of it. All that he 
did in the way of affection was to take my hand in his, 
and tell me very seriously that I was in a bad way, and 


RECONCILIATION. 


493 


must mend, or I should go to the dogs altogether. 
He did not use exactly those words, but that was what 
he meant. ” 

Elfrida was silent ; a little shame was creeping into 
her heart. 

“After that, I gave it up,” said Lady Beltane 
hardily. “ I told myself that I was a fool to go on 
caring for a man whose whole soul was wrapped up" in 
his wife ; and I determined to go abroad this autumn 
and never see him again. And I don’t want to see him 
again — nor you either, Mrs. Winy ates! So, there, you 
have my story!” 

“ But w'hat brought you here?” Elfrida asked, fixing 
her candid gray eyes hungrily on Lady Beltane’s fair, 
powdered face. 

“ Ah, that’s telling 1” said Beatrice brusquely. Then, 
after a little silence : “ Well, it was just this. I could 
not bear to think that the woman whom Philip cared 
for was throwing away her happiness and his for the 
sake of a little bit of jealousy. And when your Mr. 
White came and told me in his sweet, earnest, old-fogy 
way that this was the case, and couldn’t I do anything 
to remedy it, and so on, I began to think that I would 
not be a dog in the manger, at any rate. I may be bad, 
but I’m not spiteful — -now that I have thought things 
out. Philip cares for you with his whole heart, and 
you will be a bigger fool than I take you for, bigger 
than ever I have been myself, if you refuse to believe 
in him.” 

She was a good deal paler than usual, but her eyes 
were frank and her tone sincere. Elfrida rose and 
came toward her with outstretched, trembling hands. 

“ Will you forgive me?” she said. “ I did not under- 
stand. I am sorry I was so hard. ” 

“You’re not fit to stand, ” said Lady Beltane prac- 
tically. “ Forgive you? I think it’s the other way on: 
you ought to be forgiving me — or at any rate, I ought 
to be begging for your forgiveness. I believe I am 
sorry, Elfrida. Will you kiss me? I shall never cross 
your path again. ” 


494 


SIR Anthony's secret. 


And the two women who had been such bitter 
enemies exchanged a long quiet kiss of forgiveness 
and peace. There were actually tears in Lady Beltane’s 
eyes as she put Elfrida back into her chair. 

“ I don’t mean to be sentimental — I never was,” she 
stated presently, “ but Philip and Mr. White together 
have been rather too much for me. I’m going to try 
the experiment of making love to Beltane — at least of 
being nice to him. I’ve not been in the habit of being 
nice to him, you know. . He is a very good sort — in his 
way. I shall take him abroad, and keep him there for 
a bit; and — by the by, you are going to take Philip 
back into favor, aren’t you?” 

Elfrida blushed, and the tears came to her eyes. “ I 
hope he won’t be very angry with me,” she said. 

” Angry with you ! Don’t you know that he worships 
the ground you tread on? And you — haven’t you 
learnt to love him too, Elfrida?” 

But Elfrida ’s answer was given with something of 
her old spirit. “ I must tell that to him first — if it 
is so.” 

“Ah, well, perhaps you are right. But when you 
have made it up — as I know you will— you might give 
Betty a hint to that effect. She is keeping Beaulieu 
dangling on, without accepting or rejecting him; and I 
know it is all because she thinks that you care for him 
still. ” 

“Indeed I don’t!” said Elfrida quite indignantly. 
“ She may be quite sure of that. I will tell her so 
myself. ” 

“ Do, if you can. And now I must go. I have 
stayed far longer than the five minutes for which I 
bargained. Shall I tell Mr. White to send for Philip? 
Good-by. I hope you will soon be stronger; and let 
me congratulate you on your access to fortune — and 
other things. My cousin Eva is almost out of her mind 
with rage; but you won’t mind that much.” 

And then she swept her trailing silken skirts out of 
the room ; and Elfrida, left alone, could do nothing but 
lean back in her chair and cry a little for sheer weak- 


RECONCILIATION. 


495 


ness and tenderness of heart. For indeed her heart was 
very tender just then toward her husband. And per- 
haps it was fortunate for him that at this moment he 
was sent upstairs to her by Mr. White, who had been 
holding him in reserve, so to speak, as a fitting con- 
clusion to Lady Beltane’s visit. 

Philip came hesitatingly — almost reluctantly. He 
knew nothing of Beatrice’s explanation, and was almost 
unwilling to enter his wife’s presence before she had 
sent for him. But to his immense surprise, as soon 
as he stood before her, and began some awkward, inco- 
herent sentence, she flung herself straight into his 
arms. 

“Oh, Philip, will you forgive me? I ought to have 
trusted you — but, indeed, I did not understand!” 

“ Not understand that I loved you, my darling?” 

“No, I did not. But Lady Beltane has been here — ” 

“ Lady Beltane!” 

“ And she has told me everything. Nothing but good 
of you — you may be sure of that. And I am so sorry 
that I did not trust you enough before.” 

“ But, Elfrida,” said Philip, who felt as if he did not 
quite know whether he stood on his head or his heels, 
“what does all this mean? It sounds almost as if you 
cared a little bit for me too!” 

And she, hiding her face on his shoulder, murmured 
softly, “ I have cared for you a long time, I think. 
Ever since that day in the library at Kesterton — only I 
did not know that I cared. Everything seemed fuU of 
pain and confusion. But I know now.” 

“Say it, Elfie; say ‘Philip, I love you.’ ” 

“ Philip, I love you, ” she said, obediently ; but she 
added in a fervent crescendo — “ with all my heart and 
soul — as much as ever I am capable of loving. Will 
you forgive me, Philip dear?” 

“My darling!” he said; and after that, it is to be 
feared that the conversation ceased to be worth re- 
cording. 

Mr. White had been waiting downstairs for some time 

in great anxiety as to the result of his experiment in 


496 ■ • SIR Anthony’s secret. 

peace-making. That the result was satisfactory may 
be gathered from a few words of a conversation between 
him and his favorite daughter, Lina. 

“ I never knew such a take-in,” Lina averred, indig- 
nantly. “We all of us thought that Elfrida was so 
sincere !” 

“ Poor Lina!” said the rector, pinching her ear; “she 
is disappointed to find the world not so given up to 
malice and uncharitableness as she hoped. ” 

At which Lina pouted a little. But she was soon 
reconciled to the new order of things, for Philip came 
and went like a brother, and Elfrida blossomed out into 
a very different person from the Elfrida they had 
known. She had been a listless, drooping, melancholy 
woman before; she was now bright and spirited and 
vivacious, though without losing the little shade of 
gravity behind the brightness, which showed that she 
had known the meaning of sorrow. 

She heard incidentally that Lord and Lady Beltane 
had gone abroad. What had become of Betty she did 
not know ; but at last Betty came to see her, and men- 
tioned in a carefully careless manner that she had been 
staying with the Main war ings, who were, as Elfrida 
knew, intimate friends and distant relations of Lord 
Beaulieu. “ Then it is all settled?” Elfrida asked, with 
a smile. 

“Settled? Oh no ; nothing is settled. ” 

“ I wish.it were,” Elfrida spoke, with gentle emphasis. 
“ I should like to see you as happy as Philip and I are — ■ 
now. ” 

Lady Betty gave her a swift, inquiring look, to which 
Elfrida replied in words. 

“ Yes, it is quite time. I love Philip — I never thought 
I could love any one so much ! He is more to me than 
any one in the world!” 

“I am very glad,” said Betty; and there was a shy 
light in her blue e5^es which it pleased Elfrida to look 
upon. But she was not surprised when the girl rather 
hurriedly changed the subject, 


RECONCILIATION. 497 

“ And Lady. Kesterton? — she knows all, of course, by 
this time?” 

“ Oh, yes. Philip and Mr. White went to her solici- 
tors and told the whole story. Then a responsible clerk 
was despatched to Scotland to find out all about the 
marriage. They say it was all quite plain sailing 
when once they had got the clue : it was simply the 
first step that was needed. ” 

“ And what does Lady Kesterton say to it all?” 

“Oh, that is the most extraordinary part,” said 
Elfrida, her color rising. “ Lady Kesterton declares 
that it is all a plot, and that not a word of the story is 
true. She says that the certificate is false; that the 
clerk was bribed — everything mad and foolish that you 
can think of. She means to fight the case, she says, to 
the end. ” 

“ She must be mad!” 

“ It seems almost like madness. We sent a propo- 
sition to her — a sort of family arrangement^ — by which 
I should give up half my share of the money to little 
Janey: neither Philip nor I would have minded that. 
All that we ever wanted was the establishment of the 
marriage — our right to be called Kesterton. We did 
not care about the money — Henry and I. But she 
absolutely refused it : she said she would take nothing 
from me, and that she did not mean to surrender one 
penny of Janey ’s fortune.” 

“ She will be forced to surrender it ! And then per- 
haps she will repent.” 

Even while they were then speaking a telegram from 
Lady Kesterton was to its way to Philip — a telegram 
which spoke of at least a change of mood. He received 
it that afternoon and took it at once to Elfrida, with a 
question as to the answer. 

“ I want you and your wife at once at Kesterton Park. 
Come at once! A matter of life and death!” 

“ Shall we go?” said Philip, looking into his wife’s 
eyes. 

She hesitated a moment ; then answered “ Yes, ” 

32 ■ . 


498 


SIR ANTKONy’S SECRET. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

CONFESSION. 

Elfrida was yet far from strong, and Philip was very 
doubtful as to the prudence of taking her on so long a 
journey. But she was resolved to go. It could be from 
no ordinary motive that Lady Kesterton had tele- 
graphed for her, it could be no foolish exaggeration 
that caused her to term it “ a matter of life and death.” 
Lady Kesterton was not given to foolish exaggerations, 
or to actions caused by rash impulse. She was a cold, 
hard-headed, calculating woman. If she wanted to see 
Philip and his wife thus suddenly, it was because some 
new discovery had been made, or some new decision 
an'ived at. Perhaps she wished to make tardy repa- 
ration to poor Henry’s memory. With these contin- 
gencies in view, nothing could have persuaded Elfrida 
to stay behind, although Philip earnestly wished that 
she should let him go down first alone, and send for her 
should necessity arise. But she persisted in going with 
him, and his prudent scruples had to give way. 

It was with some foreboding of a painful or difficult 
scene that she spoke to Mr. White before she left the 
peaceful retreat of St. Fillan’s rectory, where happiness 
and success had been so long in waiting for her. “ I 
don’t know why,” she said, “ and it may be a very fool- 
ish idea of mine, but I feel as if something terrible was 
coming, and I wish — I wish you would give me your 
blessing before I go. ” 

She had come to him in his study and knelt at his 
side as she preferred her request; and he laid both 
hands on her dark head and uttered the words of bless- 
ing for which she craved. 

“And remember, my child,” he added, “ that the first 
duty of Christian man or woman is forgiveness." 

“I will try to remember it,” said Elfrida softly. 
“Don’t ask me more just yet,” And then she said 
good-by to him and went away. 

They had started at 7 o’clock, and it would be half- 


CONFESSION. 


499 


past 9 or more before they arrived at Southboroiigh. 
The day had been hot, and it was pleasant to exchange 
the lifeless air of London for the cooler breezes 
of the country. The long August day faded before 
they arrived at their destination, and the cloudless 
blue of the summer sky was obscured by masses 
of threatening cloud, at which Philip looked with some 
anxiety. “ We shall have a storm before long,” he said 
to Elfrida, as the train steamed into the Southborough 
station. “ I hope we shall be able to get a fly.” 

There was no difficulty in this. And Philip breathed 
a sigh of relief as he handed his wife into the stuffy little 
carriage. He was glad that the more serious part 
of the journey was over, and although he thought that 
fatigue had made his wife’s face look very p.ale, he was 
disposed to think that she had accomplished the jour- 
ney with considerable success. 

The roads were very dark. Now and then there 
was a rumbling of thunder in the distance. The fly- 
man drove very slowly, and it was nearly ii o’clock 
when Kesterton Park was reached. As the country- 
made carriage drove lumberingly up to the house, the 
front door was thrown wide open, and a blaze of light 
flared forth upon the drive. Philip saw that the butler 
was standing upon the steps. 

“ Anything wrong?” he asked rather sharply. 

‘‘We don’t quite know, sir,” the butler answered 
diplomatically. “ My lady seems a little anxious , but 
she begged me to ask you to go up to her at once, as 
soon as ever you came ; she was expecting you. ” 

“Go up to her now? — where?” said Philip, as he 
helped his wife to alight. 

“ In her own room, sir. And she begged that Mrs. 
Winyates would choose her room, sir. The west wing 
has been built up again, but the room occupied by the 
late Sir Henry,” with a deferential glance and a 
lowered voice, “ is always locked now, and so is Sir 
Anthony’s room. With these exceptions, sir, the 
house is quite at your service; only my lady said that 


500 


SIR ANTH0NY*S SECRET. 


she hoped you would go to her at once — both you and 
Mrs. Winyates — as the matter was urgent.” 

“We will go,” said Philip, with a glance at his wife, 
“ when you have brought Mrs. Winyates a glass of wine 
or some soup or something. Yes, Elfrida, you must 
not go up without taking food; you look very tired.” 

“I shall not be five minutes,” said Elfrida depreca- 
tingly ; “ if there is anything ready — ” 

“ The cook has soup, ma’am, I believe,” said the but- 
ler, and he led the way into the dining-room, where 
the dishes were already placed upon the table. 

“ I am ready now,” said Elfrida, after she had swal- 
lowed a few mouthfuls of soup and wine . “ I could not 

eat anything more, Philip; I am quite ready. Come.” 

She gave him her hand as they went into the hall 
and up the stairs together. A footman went before 
them, as if to show them the way ; an unnecessary piece 
of formality when they both knew the house so well ; 
but the household had leagued itself to do honor to the 
long unknown and discredited daughter of the house, in 
default of the brother who had been its rightful owner 
and had been virtually cast out of its doors. All the 
servants, as Elfrida learned later, were up in arms 
against Lady Kesterton ; all had given notice to leave. 

The woman’s coldness and harshness had been bear- 
able so long as they had associated it with rigid justice 
and honesty; but now, when, as they believed, she 
had lied and cheated in order to keep two friendless 
orphans out of their inheritance, not one of her servi- 
tors had a good word to say for her. 

At the door of the ante-room which led to Lady Kes- 
terton ’s apartments, the footman bowed and retired. 
Philip looked at Elfrida; she was very pale. “Shall 
we knock?” he said. 

“ Yes — knock.” 

He knocked, and before the door was opened a long 
vibrating roll of thunder seemed to pass above their 
very heads and shake the house. “ The storm has 
begun,” said Philip, quietly. But Elfrida made no 
answer; she was trembling from head to foot. 


CONFESSION. 


5^1 

The door was opened by a nnrse in white cap and 
apron : evidently she had expected them. In a moment 
she laid her fingers on her lips, then she admitted them, 
closed the door again, and led them across the ante- 
chamber to Lady Kesterton’s own room. “ So Lady 
Kesterton was ill!” That was the thought that crossed 
the minds of Philip and Elfrida. Ill and wishful to 
make restitution; perhaps even to ask forgiveness. 
Elfrida wrestled with herself. She did not feel — in 
spite of her promise to the rector — as if it would be 
easy to forgive Lady Kesterton. 

But when the inner door was opened, an unexpected 
sight mejt her eyes. The room certainly contained the 
paraphernalia of sickness. There were medicine bottles 
on a little table; a steam-kettle filled the air with vapor. 
A hot bath had recently been prepared. Although the 
weather was warm, a small fire blazed in the grate; but 
the air was already growing colder as the storm burst 
overhead, and the room was not stiflingly hot. 

It surprised Elfrida to find that the invalid v/as not 
Lady Kesterton. No, for she was sitting in a low chair, 
with a child on her lap. It was one of her children 
who was ill ; and to those who knew Lady Kesterton 
best a whole vista of possibilities was opened up by 
the fact of the child’s illness. 

The boy — for it was Gerald — was wrapped in a 
blanket, and was lying on his mother’s knee in such a 
position that he could inhale the steam from the kettle. 
His loud rasping breath, his flushed face and look of 
fright, showed plainly enough what was his ailment. 
It hardly needed the nurse’s significant murmur, 
“ Bronchitis and croup,” to explain the situation. 

But his mother ! Elfrida and Philip had seen Lady 
Kesterton many times in moments of agitation, sorrow 
or affright, but they had never seen her look as she 
looked now — never seen the stony despair that looked 
out of her eyes on any mortal face before. She had 
thrown off her widow’s cap, and her fair hair, streaked 
with gray, was pushed back from her forehead in un- 
characteristic disorder. Her forehead was lined, her 


502 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


month drawn at the corners, her blue eyes looked 
ghastly in their orbits of purple and yellow. The last 
few months — perhaps even the last few days — had added 
years to her age. Her eyes were full of unguish, but 
her mouth was even worse to look at -than her eyes ; for 
it was grimly, rigidly set in an expression of mingled 
defiance and despair. 

I thought you would never come,” she said, ad- 
dressing herself at once to Elfrida in hoarse, unnatural 
toneS; “ I have been waiting hours for you ; and I 
thought my boy would die.” 

“I am very sorry,” said Elfrida, gently, but in ex- 
treme wonderment. “We came as soon as we could.” 

She knelt down beside the mother and child, and put 
back the damp curls from the child’s brow. In the 
dead stillness of the room the boy’s heavy panting for 
breath was the only sound that could be heard. Out- 
side the house, the wind was roaring and the rain dash- 
ing against the windows. And now and then the 
thunder boomed like a signal overhead. 

“Poor little Gerald!” Elfrida murmured. “I did 
not know that he was so ill.” 

“ You are sorry for him?” she said, in the same harsh, 
strained tones. “Why should you be? He has been 
the reason why — why I have done many things that you 
ought to hate me for. I was not sorry for your brother 
when he suffered, was I? Why should you take the 
trouble to pretend that you are sorry for my son?” 

“I do not pretend,” said Elfrida, gravely. “I am 
sorry for him because he is a child, and in pain.” 

“Well, perhaps you maybe,” said Lady Kesterton, 
with a long-drawn sigh, “ and if you are, then you will 
perhaps be sorry also for me. I have nobody — nothing — • 
left me in the world but my children. If I lose them, 
I lose all. I would rather die than see my children 
dead. Don ’ t you understand ? Y ou loved your brother ; 
don’t you know how it feels to care for a person more 
than for all the world beside?” 

“ I do indeed!” said Elfrida, pitifully. 

Philip tried to interfere. “ The child is quieter now, ” 


CONFESSION. 


503 


he said ; “ perhaps he will sleep. Had we not better 
leave you now and see’ you again in the morning? I 
am afraid we are only disturbing him. ” 

Lady Kesterton turned her wild eyes upon him with 
a look of bitter mockery. “ How much you know!" she 
said. “ How much you understand! We don’t disturb 
him ; or if we do, it is only for a minute or two. I 
sent for you on a last chance. Is the nurse , there? 
vSend her away. I want to speak to Elfrida and to 
you.” 

Philip glanced toward the nurse, who, with an 
openly-affronted air, at once retired to an outer room. 
When the door of communication was closed Lady 
Kesterton spoke again. 

“He has been in terrible danger more than once,” 
she said. “ I thought that he would have died this 
afternoon — when I telegraphed to you. For it came to 
me quite suddenly last night, when I was sitting beside 
him, that it was perhaps a— a sort of judgment upon 
me — a punishment, you know. I was cruel to another 
woman’s children once — and they say God knows, 
God remembers, and that the sins of the parents are 
visited on the children. So that — because I was cruel 
to Henry — Henry Kesterton — perhaps God was going 
to take away my son from me.” 

She spoke with a tragic intensity which chilled the 
hearers’ very blood. Even Elfrida, with a quick re- 
vulsion of feeling, cried out “ Oh, no, no, that cannot 
be!” as if she had never been injured by the woman 
who was now striving as passionately for the life of her 
only son. And Philip, also moved, drew near and laid 
his hand on his wife’s shoulder. But Lady Kesterton, 
unchecked by their gestures or their exclamations, 
went on, moistening her dry white lips with her tongue 
before she spoke. 

“ I thought that perhaps— if I did all I could to make 
amends— He might relent. Not forgive; I don’t ex- 
pect His forgiveness. But if I did what I could to 
put things right, He would perhaps spare me my child. 
It seems so cruel to torture a little child for what its 


5^4 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


mother may have done amiss, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t 
do that, would you? And if you — you, Elfrida — would 
pray that Gerald’s life might be spared, then perhaps 
He would hear. ” 

“ I will pray — of course I will !” cried Elfrida. “ You 
need not sa)^ any more. If my prayers can' do any good — 
But you will pray for him yourself, and God will hear. ” 

“ No,” said Lady Kesterton, still with the stony eyes 
that seemed as if they had lost the power of filling with 
honest tears. “ I cannot pray. God would not listen 
to me. But I will tell you what I mean to do. You 
shall have all the money — all that I thought was 
Janey’s, you know; and the jewels and ever)^thing. I 
will give you mine too. I can’t give you Gerald’s, 
because I have no power over his things. But every- 
thing else you can have. And I will write a paper, if 
you like, saying that Henry spoke the truth, and that I 
did hear Sir Anthony acknowledge him as his lawful 
son. I would not say it before because I was so angry, 
and I wanted everything for Gerald. But I will say it 
now. I will say anything, if only Gerald does not die!” 

“Dear Lady Kesterton, that is quite enough,” said 
Elfrida gently. “ Indeed, I hope that Gerald will get 
better. You must not distress yourself so — it is bad 
for him. I understand all that you mean to say.” 

“Perhaps I have not said enough,” said the mother, 
clasping the child closer and rocking it backward and 
forward upon her breast. “ But I cannot say anything 
else, For Gerald’s own sake, I can say no more. It is 
no use to give him back to life with a tarnished name, 
is it? Oh, have I not said enough to atone — to atono 
for what I did?” 

It is enough — I am sure it is,” Elfrida said, replying 
to she knew not what. “ Henry forgave everything before 
he died, and so do I. We will pray God together — will 
we not, Philip?-^that poor little Gerald may not die.” 

“Pray aloud,” said Lady Kesterton, with feverish 
eagerness. “ Say it aloud — -so that I may hear. Per- 
haps it may do me good too. I have not prayed for so 
long. Why do you wait? why don’t you go on? Don’t 


RECANTATION; 


505 

you see that he may be dying, and you are wasting the 
precious time? Oh, go on, go on!” 

Elfrida was almost appalled by the heathenish super- 
stition of the woman. It was not faith; it was a mere 
childish belief in the efficacy of prayer as a charm. 
Nevertheless, Elfrida forgot everything but the needs 
of the human beings before her, and prayed aloud, as 
she knelt at Lady Kesterton’s side, for the recovery and 
preservation of Lady Kesterton’s little son. 


CHAPTER L. 

RECANTATION. 

Suddenly Lady Kesterton uttered a sharp cry. El- 
frida stopped short — the words frozen upon her lips. 
It needed but a glance to tell what had happened. The 
child had become worse ; a paroxysm of choking had 
come on, and was already making him almost black in 
the face. The nurse was hurriedly fetched from the 
other room, and some strong remedies were hastily ap- 
plied. During the terrible moments of the crisis. Lady 
Kesterton kept entire silence, but her eyes were never 
once removed from the convulsed features of the boy’s 
little face. For a short time they did not know whether 
he would not die, then and there, before their eyes. 
But at last the crisis seemed to pass; the danger was, 
for the moment, averted ; the child lay comparatively 
peaceful and quiet upon her knee. But the nurse whis- 
pered a warning into Elfrida ’s ear. 

“Keep the steam going, please, ma’am,” she said. 
“ My lady’s no management. If it goes down and he 
gets chilled at all, it will be all over; he’ll never strug- 
gle through another of these attacks.” 

She spoke very softly, and Elfrida replied in the same 
tone. 

“ I will watch very carefully, and if I see the slight- 
est change I will call you. Go and rest, nurse, for a 
little while ; I and Mr. Winyates will stay here. ” 

The nurse nodded and went into the next room. El- 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


506 

frida thought that the words could not possibly have 
been overheard; but Lady Kesterton seemed to have 
grasped the sense of them. 

“ He could not get over another attack ! that was 
what she said, was it not?” she asked^ fixing her eyes 
on Elfrida. 

“He has not much strength,” said Elfrida softly, 
and she could not bring herself to say more. But Lady 
Kesterton understood. 

At last a slight — very slight — change came over the 
child’s face. Was another convulsion about to follow? 
Elfrida gave an anxious look to the steaming kettle 
and to the position of the child’s head. He seemed 
quiet again, but the movement called life back to Lad}^ 
Kesterton ’s dull blue eyes, and eager words to her livid 
lips. 

“ I knew it!” she said. “ He will not live! I have 
not done all I might have done!” 

“ Hush, Lady Kesterton, for the child’s sake, keep 
quiet,” said Philip. But she turned upon him angrily. 

“ It is for him I speak. It is for his life. I know — I 
know God will not let him live to comfort me while I 
have a lie upon my lips. But I will confess. I will 
tell the whole truth.” Her voice rose to a wailing 
shriek, inexpressibly painful to listen to. “ It was I 
that killed his father — I killed Anthon}^ Kesterton ! I 
a77i a murderess! Oh, yes, look at me as you like : I am 
not mad. It was I that gave him the overdose of 
chloral that killed him, because I did not want him to 
live and acknowledge Henry and Elfrida before the 
world. I have suffered since — yes, but it was I who 
killed him — for Gerald’s sake. And God will not for- 
give me, and Gerald will die!” 

There was no time to be lost. Elfrida took the child 
into her own arms, and Philip caught the fainting, 
agonized woman as she slipped sideways from her chair. 
Neither he nor Elfrida attached very much importance 
to what she had said. They thought that her nerves 
were unhinged with watching, and her brain tottering 
from exhaustion and grief. The nurse, hearing the 


RECANTATION. 


507 

sound of bustle and confusion, came in, and helped 
Philip to carry her to another room. Elfrida was left 
with little Gerald until they were able to return to her. 

Possibly the soothing influence of Elfrida’s purer and 
warmer nature had some power over the child. At any 
rate it seemed as if, from the moment when Elfrida 
took him in her arms, he grew easier. His breathing 
became freer, his skin cooler; a gentle dew stood on 
his forehead, and the eyelids closed in a quiet slum.ber. 
When morning dawned at last, the boy was wonderfully 
better, and the doctor, who rode over from Southborough, 
fully expecting to hear that the child was dead, found 
him on the high-road to recovery. It was Lady Kester- 
ton who now stood most in need of his professional 
skill. She was confined to her bed, and not allowed to 
see anybody but the nurse and Elfrida. It was for El- 
frida that she asked every day, and would not be satis- 
fied until her visit had been paid. 

Philip would have been glad now to leave the house, 
but he was obliged to stay, for without Elfrida the 
whole place would have been in disorder. And he 
would not leave her there without him. She begged 
him more than once to go back to town, but he abso- 
lutely refused. “You are too precious to be left 
behind,” he said one day; and then, more gravely, 
“ besides, I do not care about leaving you with Lady 
Kesterton. ” 

“ Oh, Philip ! but you do not believe the extraordinary 
things that she said when she was wild with anxiety 
about Gerald?” 

“ I do not know, ” he said gravely. And Elfrida asked 
no more. 

It was curious to find herself even temporarily at the 
head of the great household where she had felt herself so 
unhappy and misprized for many a weary year. There 
was no doubt as to her position now. She was the late 
baronet’s daughter, and one and all hastened to do her 
bidding. Personally she had always been liked, and 
she was now popular because she did not bear malice 
for the snubs and offences which she had been obliged 


5o8 sir Anthony’s secret. 

to endure in the old days. The county people, hearing 
that she was there, and agog to know all that was going 
on, began to call on her. Philip was proud of his wife’s 
bearing at this as at every other time. She was not 
elated, she was not supercilious, she was not even bit- 
ter : she was simply gentle, grateful for kindness, but 
thoroughly independent in spirit. 

One of her greatest pleasures now was her renewed 
intercourse with little Janey, of whom she had always 
been extremely fond. 

The child ran into her arms as soon as she saw her, but 
when the first embrace was over, looked up into her 
face with a questioning expression which Elfrida could 
not wholly understand, 

“ What is it, dear?” she asked. 

“Are you coming back to stay here. Miss Paston?” 
said the child. How the name thrilled Elfrida with 
old associations ! 

“You must not call me that now, darling. Call me 
Elfrida — Elfie; that is what I like. You are my little 
sister now; do you know that?” 

“ Your sister?” said the child. 

It was evidently a new idea to her, She looked ear- 
nestly at Elfrida, and then heaved a great sigh. 

“ What is it, darling?” Elfrida asked coaxingly — for 
she saw that the child had something on her. mind. 
But to her great surprise Janey instantly began to cry. 

“ They said — you were naughty — you and Harry — and 
you were both sent away because you were naughty. 
You aren’t naughty now, are you?” 

“ Not a bit,” said Elfrida cheerfully. But the words 
gave her a pang. They showed her the way in which 
she and Henry had been spoken of in their father’s 
house. 

It was the remembrance of that little talk which came 
to Elfrida ’s mind a few days later when she was sitting 
quietly with Lady Kesterton, who was now recovering 
from her illness. Janey came running in with some 
fiowers, and Elfrida took her upon her knee and praised 
the bouquet with tender, endearing words, Looking 


RECANTATION. 


509 

Up, she saw Lady Kesterton’s eyes fixed upon her, and 
by a sudden impulse she turned to her and spoke, with 
Janey’s arms still tightly clasped about her neck. 

“Janey tells me,” she said, “that you once told her 
Henry was — what she calls — ‘naughty. ’ I want you to 
tell her now that he was good — always good. ” 

Janey’s arms clung a little tighter. She was very 
much afraid of her mother now. And Lady Kesterton 
kept a strange silence, with her eyes still fixed upon 
Elfrida’s face. 

“You owe me this^'' said Elfrida, with sudden vehe- 
mqnce. “ Clear his name to the child, at any rate ; she 
will believe you, and perhaps the world may not.” 

It was the hardest word that she had ever said. But 
Lady Kesterton’s silence drove her into cruel speech. 
Perhaps Elfrida judged her harshly. Lady Kester- 
ton spoke, in her weak, unemotional voice. 

“ Janey,” she said, “look at me!” 

The child looked, with a twitching mouth. She was 
ready to burst into tears. 

“Janey, I want to tell you that Henry — you remem- 
ber him? — was good and kind. If I said he was not, 
I was wrong. You are to love him; he was your 
brother, and he — I believe he loved you. ” 

Surely no exhortation to love and kindness was ever 
conveyed in a colder voice. Elfrida listened in amaze. 
She could no more have said words like these without 
warmth and tears and glow of feeling than she could 
have struck a flowing river to ice. The amende was 
made indeed, but not as she would have had it made — • 
in love and penitence. 

“ Send the child out of the room,” said Lady Kester- 
ton. “ I want to speak to you.” 

And then, when Janey had very gladly escaped, she 
turned her cold eyes on Elfrida’s face and spoke again. 

“ You thought I would not keep my word,” she said. 
“ But you are wrong. ” 

“ No, I did not really think that. It was a momen- 
tary doubt, for which I beg your pardon,” said Elfrida 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


510 

frankly. “ I was a little hurt by what Janey had said of 
Henry.” 

“ I wish to tell you that I meant what I said — about 
making amends. I will let all the world know that I — 
I lied about Sir Anthony’s story.” 

“We don’t need that,” said Elfrida. “It will be 
better to keep the thing as quiet as possible,” 

“Ah! you don’t understand. I said that I would do 
it, and I will. But there is one thing more. I believe — 
I said — other things. ” The words came out with diffi- 
culty : it was evidently a great effort to her to say them. 

“Oh, but we do not remember them,” said Elfrida 
soothingly. “You were overwrought, and did not 
know what you were saying. ” 

“Yes, that is what I mean. I did not know. Of 
course it was not true. ” Her eyes were still fixed upon 
Elfrida ’s face, and her breath came faster in the pause. 
“ I — had nothing to do with Sir Anthony’s death — 
nothing at all, ” she said. But her face was deathly white. 

Elfrida hastened to reassure her. Neither she nor 
Philip had thought of these words again, she said. 

“ I don’t know. Philip looks at me — he makes me 
nervous. And the nurse, I think she heard. Oh, you 
believe me — you understand, don’t you?” said the 
wretched woman, with a sudden clutch at Elfrida ’s 
hand. “ You will never let anybody think of it again?” 

And Elfrida promised ; but went out of the room in 
a state of greater amaze and anxiety than ever. For, 
judging from Lady Kesterton’s manner, either she was 
a guilty woman or she was not sane. 

But after this little outbreak things went placidly 
enough. Gerald rapidly recovered health and strength, 
and Lady Kesterton followed his example. They were 
both so much stronger that toward the end of Septem- 
ber Elfrida and Philip thought themselves justified in 
returning to town. They could give no further assist- 
ance to Lady Kesterton, and their stay was not much 
of a pleasure either for them or for her. They drew a 
long breath of relief when they got out of the house, 
and vowed that nothing short of dire necessity should 


kEGANTAtlON* 


6ver take them to Kesterton Park agfain. Elfrida had 
prevailed on some of the older servants to remain ; she 
had extracted permission from Lady Kesterton to settle 
a large sum of money on little Janey as soon as she 
came into her own fortune; and she was allowed to 
take the child back with her to London. Therefore she 
was light of heart, and considered that she had obtained 
more favors than she had any right to expect. 

But toward December a rumor came to Philip’s ears 
which filled him with uneasiness. He had never been 
convinced, as Elfrida was, that Lady Kesterton ’s con- 
fession on the night of Gerald’s illness had been entirely 
caused by over-fatigue and hysterical sensibility. These 
characteristics were not consistent with Lady Kester- 
ton ’s nature. The confession of her guilt with regard 
to Henry’s right was true enough: why, then, should 
she have gone on to confess a design against her hus- 
band’s life, unless that were true also? Philip did not 
exactly put his suspicions into words. But he had the 
feeling that there was something which he did not 
know, and he was glad that nobody but himself and El- 
frida had heard what Lady Kesterton said. 

But his gladness was premature. The rumor that 
came to him connected Lady Kesterton with Sir An- 
thony’s death. And the source seemed to be the nurse 
who had been sent into the ante-room in order that she 
might not hear. She had heard, and she had tattled ; 
and strange reports were beginning to float about. It 
was said that the Government would take the matter 
up ; that there would be an inquiry ; that Lady Kester- 
ton would be examined. And Philip felt bound at last 
to tell these rumors to his wife. 

“Oh, poor thing!” said Elfrida, innocent and unsus- 
pecting. “ How she must be suffering! Philip, let us 
go down to Kesterton at once and see her.” 

Philip thought that Elfrida was a trifle over-generous, 
and that to go to Kesterton was a work of supereroga- 
tion; however, he yielded to her gentle persuasions, 
and they set off, on a wet autumnal afternoon, for South- 
borough and Kesterton Park. 


512 


SIR ANTHONY S SECRET. 


CHAPTER LI. 

THE AVENGING SEA. 

When Philip and Elfrida arrived at Kesterton Park, 
about 7 o’clock in the evening, they were greeted with 
an unexpected piece of news. Neither Lady Kesterton 
nor little Gerald was in the house. 

“ Have they gone on a visit somewhere, then?” said 
Philip of the housekeeper, whose mysterious face 
seemed to show that something was amiss. 

“ No, sir; her ladyship has gone to a house in Kester- 
ton village, so as to be near the sea. ” 

“ To be near the sea — at this time of the year?” asked 
Elfrida almost incredulously. 

The housekeeper coughed discreetly behind her mit- 
tened hand. 

“ Step in here, Mrs. Bates,” said Philip, turning aside 
from the hall and the listening servants to a small room 
which he had been in the habit of using as a little 
study, “ and tell us what it all means?” 

“ I’m sure I couldn’t say, Mr. Philip,” said the house- 
keeper, in a confidential tone. It was only in moments 
of confidence that Mrs. Bates forgot herself so far as to 
call him “ Mr. Philip, ” but the appellation had a homely, 
friendly sound in Philip’s ears. “ It seems,” she went 
on in a lowered tone, “ that she has lately taken a great 
dislike to the Park, and has been wanting to get away 
from it ever since little Sir Gerald was ill in the au- 
tumn. She said she thought it was unhealthy with all 
the trees round it, and that the drainage was not right, 
for Sir Gerald kept on getting colds and sore throats, 
and she said that it was because the place wasn’t brac- 
ing enough. And about a week ago she got into a 
dreadful taking because the little fellow — Sir Gerald, I 
mean, begging your pardon, sir — seemed poorly, and she 
said she would go down to the sea for a few days and 
see what that would do for him.” 

“ But where has she gone?” 

“You know the little white villa with green shutters, 


THK AVENGING SEA. 


513 


Called Sea View Lodge, don’t yon, sir? It stands away 
from the village a little, close to the beach, almost. ” 

“ Do you mean to say that she has gone there?” 

“Yes, sir, she has; and taken Sir Gerald and the 
maid — and that is all.” 

“I have never been inside the house,” said Elfrida; 
“ what is it like?” 

“Cold, draughty, badly built,” said Philip shortly. 
“ Not a suitable place to take a child to in winter-time.” 

“And some folks say — not very safe, sir,” said Mrs. 
Bates, in a significant tone. 

Philip stood silent for a moment, and Elfrida read in 
his face that he was struck by the suggestion. She 
thought of the situation of the house. It has already 
been mentioned that a portion of the land on which the 
village of Kesterton was built had been reclaimed from 
the sea by a former lord of the manor. The village 
stood in a gorge between two hill-sides, and in old days 
it was well known that the sea used to creep up to the 
very end of this cleft in the hill-side. An elaborate 
construction of dykes and earthworks now set a limit to 
the waves; and these being now partially overgrown 
with grass and planted with trees, the reason of their 
existence was partially forgotten. Of late they had 
fallen somewhat into disrepair, as Philip knew well ; for 
he had many times tried to impress upon Sir Anthony’s 
mind the necessity of keeping the breakwaters in good 
condition. But Sir Anthony had been hard to stir to 
action; and since his death, almost a year ago, nothing 
at all had been done by way of preservation. The 
older inhabitants of the village were in the habit of 
shaking their heads doubtfully when the safety of these 
constructions was mentioned; and many of them had 
removed as far as possible from the seaboard, and 
planted their dwellings on the hill-sides, where they 
felt themselves safe from the treacherous inroads of salt- 
water. But the little white villa, of which the house- 
keeper spoke, stood close to the “sea-banks,” as the 
earthworks were generally, though somewhat vaguely, 
called. Even in summer, visitors would sometimes 
33 


sik ANTHON.y’s SECkET. 


5U 

shrink from inhabiting it, if the weather were bad. 
They said the waves that struck the banks seemed to 
make the house tremble to its foundations. For years it 
had been prognosticated every autumn that some com- 
ing tempest would level it with the ground ; but never- 
theless it still stood, and was regularly let during the 
season to summer visitors. 

Philip did not like to feel that Lady Kesterton 
was alone at this place without proper warning; so 
he set off at once for Sea View Lodge, with the object 
of seeing Lady Kesterton himself. 

It was not until he got down into the gorge that he 
began to estimate the strength and fury of the wind 
that was sweeping up from the sea, and howling 
through it as if it were a funnel. The night was very 
dark, and the great waves were dashing over the break- 
water as if they spurned the petty obstacle. Once 
he came across a fallen tree ; once a tile and part of a 
chimney crashed in the road behind him : the elements 
seemed to be let loose, and death and destruction were 
threatened to all who opposed their course. Every 
moment the wind roared louder, and every moment the 
waves seemed to leap higher and more widely. 

He paused for an instant at the village inn and ex- 
changed a word or two with the landlord, whose opin- 
ions as to the safety of Sea View Lodge in a storm 
corresponded with his own. “ It be a wild wisht kind 
of a place,” he said; “no moor fit for a tempest than a 
house o’ card-board. My lady’s London born — she 
doan’t know; and in the thick big house o’ her’n on the 
hill she no thought o’ what the storms are like down 
here. You get her away. Muster Philip, and bring her 
and the little measter up here ; we are safe enough, and 
the walls are main an’ thick.” 

Philip walked quickly to the house, determining to 
persuade Lady Kesterton — if persuasion were allowed — 
to take this course. The well-built, substantial old inn 
had weathered a hundred storms ; it stood with its back 
to a rocky side of the gorge, and was as much sheltered 
as it could be. But the little white villa, built for 


THE AVENGING SEA. 


S15 

Summer-time, looked marvellously frail to him as he 
drew near. He could almost imagine that he saw it 
shaking at every blast that blew. 

He had to knock twice, and loudly, before the door 
was opened. A very white, scared-looking maid- 
servant, in whom Philip recognized a former nurse of 
the children, opened the door. 

“Oh, Mr. Winyates, sir! Oh, I am so glad you have 
come!” she gasped. 

“Why so, Mary?” Philip asked good-humoredly, as 
he helped her to shut the front door — a task which the 
fury of the storm rendered a somewhat difficult one. 

“ It’s my belief, sir, that the house will be down 
about our ears before the night is out,” said the girl 
excitedly; “ and I can’t get my lady to listen to a word. 
She says it’s all nonsense.” 

“ I want to see Lady Kesterton, ” said Philip. “ And, 
Mary, you may as well be putting some of her things 
together. I have come to take you all up to the Kester- 
ton Arms. ” 

“Thank goodness for that!” said Mary to herself, as 
she showed Philip into the little drawing-room where 
Lady Kesterton sat alone. Philip caught the words, 
and could not help smiling at the tone of heart-felt 
relief in which they were uttered. But his smile van- 
ished when he caught sight of Lady Kesterton. She 
was sitting in a strange, crouching attitude close to the 
fire. There was a look of stony horror, a whiteness of 
the lips, which Philip was shocked to see. Was she 
alarmed by the storm? 

“Good-evening, Lady Kesterton,” he began gravely. 
“ I hope the storm has not alarmed you.” 

She raised herself a little and looked at him with a 
strange, blank gaze, as if she did not see him at first. 
Presently the look of sight came back into her eyes, 
accompanied with surprise and inquiry. 

“ Philip !” she said. “ Why are you here?” 

“ I heard that you were at this house, and came down 
to warn you that it was not safe — ” 

“ What ! all the way from London — for that V' 


SIR ANTHONY S SECRET. 


516 

“ No, there was another reason for my coming from 
London; but I ‘will tell you of that to-morrow — or a 
little later to-night. At present I want to urge you to 
come with Gerald and your maid to the inn, just for the 
night. I assure you this house is not safe. It is in a 
very exposed situation, and I have long been expecting 
to hear that an accident had happened to it. You must 
come away at once, ” 

“Come away? But that is impossible, Philip!’' 

“Why impossible? It is but a short walk to the inn, 
where you will be at least comparatively safe; and 
to-morrow you can remove to the Park — ” 

“ Oh, no, no — never to the Park ! I will never enter 
the house again!” 

“As to that, we can talk the matter over to-mor- 
row ; but at present, Lady Kesterton, it is for to-night 
that I am anxious. You must leave this house at 
once. Listen to the wind — it gets stronger every minute. 
I have already told Mary to get your things ready. I 
will carry Gerald myself.” 

“ It is for Gerald’s sake I have come here. I don’t 
see any reason for going away. ” 

“ Not even when you hear the wind and the sea?” 

He might well say that: for at that moment a crash 
from the roof announced that one of the chimney-pots 
had gone ; and a great splash against the window 
showed that the great waves were flinging showers of 
spray far over the breakwater and the banks. Lady 
Kesterton started to her feet : a more natural look of 
fright and agitation came into her face. 

“ Is there really danger to the house?” 

“ I fear so. You will come to the inn, I hope, at 
once. ” 

“Yes, yes, I will come. Ring the bell for Mary, 
Philip,” said Lady Kesterton, in a much fainter tone. 
“ But not — not to Kesterton Park, remember ! I will 
not go there. ” 

“What is your objection to Kesterton Park?” said 
Philip, as they waited for Mary to answer the summons. 

She stammered a little over her reply. 


THE AVENGING SEA. 


517 


“The drainage is wrong — I am sure it is: we had 
sore throats there, and I could not let Gerald stay. I — 
I would go at a moment’s notice from any place where 
the drains were wrong. ” 

“ I do not believe that there is anything wrong with 
them,” said Philip steadily. “And allow me to tell 
you, Lady Kesterton, that your absence from your 
home, and from your late husband’s home” — he said 
the words with marked significance — “ will give rise to 
more of the unpleasant comments that have already 
been made.” 

“Unpleasant comments!” repeated Lady Kesterton, 
facing him with an unmoved front. “ What do you 
mean?” 

“ I will tell you to-morrow. Here comes Mary. 
Will you give your orders?” 

“You are incomprehensible,” said Lady Kesterton 
scornfully, as she turned away. 

But Philip noticed the way in which her hand 
clutched the back of a chair, as if to keep her from stag- 
gering as she walked; and he divined that she was 
much more agitated than she chose to show. 

She went out of the room with Mary; and Philip 
remained alone, growing more and more uneasy as he 
listened to the boom of the water and the savage howl 
of the wind, and felt the house quiver from time to time 
like a stricken thing. It seemed an age to him before 
Lady Kesterton and her maid reappeared clad in warm 
cloaks and bonnets. Lady Kesterton held Gerald in 
her arms, and Mary had a little black bag in her hand. 

“Let me carry him. Lady Kesterton,” said Philip. 
“And, for Heaven’s sake, make haste! It is my belief 
that the roof of this house will be off in another ten 
minutes. ” 

“ I will carry him,” said she obstinately. 

“ You have no idea how strong the wind is. You 
had better take my arm and let me carry the boy. It 
will be safer.” 

“You shall not take him away from me!” she cried, 
with sudden fierceness, “ I h^lieve you want to takq 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


518 

him into danger. We should be safer here— you may 
go with Mary: I will stay here, after all.” 

“You cannot be so foolish!” said Philip, sternly. 
“ Listen to the wind — there goes another chimney-pot ! 
We shall be in danger for a few minutes outside, I 
grant you ; but not for long. And to stay in this gim- 
crack house means, I believe, certain death.” 

At these words Mary burst out crying; and Gerald — 
only half comprehending what went on, but frightened 
by the unwonted sounds about him — began to cry also, 
and clung tightly to his mother’s neck. Lady Kester- 
ton moved, however, in a dazed, uncertain manner 
toward the door. But she would not let him touch the 
child. “ No, no!” she cried. “ I will save him myself, 
as I saved him from the horrible house up there, 
where Anthony used to come every night and clutch 
the boy’s throat. He never came here — never here!” 

The words lingered in Philip’s memory, inducing a 
new and awful fear. Was it possible that there was 
something wrong with this poor woman’s brain? What 
did she mean by that ghastly reference to her dead hus- 
band? Or — low down in his heart the thought insisted 
on repeating itself — could it be that she had had any- 
thing to do with her husband’s death? 

He never forgot the fears and dangers of that dark 
walk from the villa to the inn. The distance was short ; 
but the road was rough and uneven, and the wind was 
furious. It blew them forward, however, and acted as 
a friend to. them in their need. They walked in the 
middle of the road for safety’s sake; but even here they 
were pot exempt, from danger, for tiles were flying 
from some, of the roofs, and the trees that grew here 
and there were breaking or being positively torn up by 
the roots. Philip helped Lady Kesterton as well as he 
could, but she would not give up her burden to him, 
and their progress was necessarily very slow. 

When the little party at length had felt their way 
from the main road to the little side lane between two 
stone walls which led to the Kesterton Arms, firmly 
planted on a rocky plateau with its back to the ever- 


TH.L AVENGING SEA. 


5^9 


lasting hills, Philip drew a long sigh of relief, and 
glanced back to the foaming, billowing sea that they 
had left behind. 

Left — not a minute too soon ! 

For even as he looked, a great rushing mass of water 
struck the dyke and poured itself against the very 
walls of the little summer villa. The house, which 
had hitherto been visible as a white patch in the dark- 
ness, seemed to collapse like a child’s toy. Philip 
caught his breath and uttered a quick, sharp exclama- 
tion, unheard in the clamor of the storm. The house 
was gone! And what was the roar, the rush that fol- 
lowed? Ah, was it not what he had feared? The weak 
defen :es had gone down before that onslaught of the 
waters; and up the valley rushed the great wall of 
sea, carrying devastation in its path. Would even 
the inn escape? It stood high, certainly; but there 
was no knowing how far that terrible wave would 
reach. 

Philip rushed forward — the women clinging in fran- 
tic terror to his arm. They were on the door-step by 
this time, clamoring to be let in. One moment, and 
they would be safe ! 

But in one moment it is possible to be overtaken by 
destruction. It was not the water that assailed them, 
but the powers of the air. A great fir tree which had 
stood fifty years in the inn garden had been swaying 
dangerously for some time, and fell at that very 
moment across the very steps on which the party of fu- 
gitives had gathered. The maid remained almost un- 
touched — Philip was smitten to the earth, but not much 
injured. When help came, and all four were extricated 
from their perilous position, it was found that the chief 
sufferers were those whom Philip had risked his life to 
save. 

Lady Kesterton was alive but her back was broken, 
and the boy Gerald lay dead in his mother’s arms. 


520 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


CHAPTER LIL 

COMPENSATION. 

The dawn broke over a scene of terrible desolation in 
the Kesterton valley. The sea had reclaimed its own. 

’ The cottages in the lower part of the village had been 
i wrecked or swept away, and there had been some loss 
of life and much loss of property. For the most part 
the people had been warned in time, and had gone to 
their friends on the hills, but there were some sad 
cases of old and feeble persons who had been swept 
away by the current or crushed by falling fragments of 
timber and masonry. Considering the extent of the 
disaster, however, the loss of life was small. 

The inn had remained untouched, either from the 
effects of wind or water. The great fir tree still lay 
across the door-step, and in the course of the morning 
as many of the village people as could reach the inn 
came to gaze upon its broken branches, and to whisper 
to each other the details of the calalmity that had 
taken place. Every one acknowledged that there had 
been no apparent means of avoiding it. If Lady Kes- 
terton and Sir Gerald had stayed at the villa they must 
have been swept into the sea; and in that case Mr. 
Winyates and the maid-servant w'ould also have been 
drowned. Philip had acted for the best; but it had 
been a choice of evils, and no human hand could, have 
averted the destruction that had been wrought. 

Elfrida came to the inn by a circular route early in 
the morning. The wind was abating, but a seething 
sea now rolled where once had stood quiet homesteads 
and gardens and a country road. The labor of years 
had been swept away in a single night. 

Philip met his wife at the door, drew her inside a 
little private parlor, and told her all the story that she 
had not already known. Ill news travels fast, and she 
had heard an account of the disaster before he came. 
Indeed, for some time she had believed that even Philip 
was killed ; and the shock had so far unnerved her that 


COMPENSATION. 


521 


her husband tried to dissuade her from going into Lady 
Kesterton’s room. But on hearing that Lady Kester- 
ton was conscious and had asked for her, she insisted 
upon going. Poor little Gerald’s dead body had been 
laid in an upper room; but Lady Kesterton had been 
carried into a sitting-room, where she now lay perfectly 
flat on a mattress spread upon a dining-table. Her 
face was ashen-gray, but there was no trace of pain 
upon it ; and the coverlet was drawn closely up to her 
throat. 

“ She may say or do what she likes, ” the doctor mur- 
mured to Philip, as they passed each other at the door. 
“ She is beyond hope.” 

Elfrida shrank a little at the sight of the gray-white 
face ; but then a feeling of compassion and womanly 
sympathy came to her aid, and conquered the momen- 
tary repulsion. She went forward and leaned over the 
dying woman, speaking some gentle and comforting 
words. But Lady Kesterton hushed her at once. 

“Don’t talk to me, ’’she said. “I have something — 
myself — to say. I am dying, you know — the doctor 
has told me so, and I am — not sorry.” 

What could they say? From no point of view could 
they contradict her. There was a moment’s painful 
pause, and then she went on in broken, unnatural tones : 

“It is God’s judgment — I acknowledge that,” she 
said. “ I tried to fight against Him — and I failed. ” 

“ We all fail when we try to fight aginst Him,” said 
Philip. It was a truism, he knew, but there was noth- 
ing else to be said. “ If we acknowledge our sins He 
is ready and willing to forgive us. ” 

“It is impossible for Him to forgive me; I don’t 
know that I desire it,” said Lady Kesterton, in her old 
stony way. “ But I am willing to accept this — all this 
— as retribution for my sin. I did it all — everything — 
for Gerald. And now he is dead, and I lie here dying 
— almost as Henry died, is it not? They tell me that 
my spine is injured, and that even if I lived I should be 
in constant agony. ... Is there no retribution here?” 

“But, dear Lady Kesterton,” said Elfrida gently, 


522 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


“ you have already made all restitution that was possi- 
ble. Don’t you remember how Gerald was given back 
to you, and how you told us that you had heard Sir 
Anthony’s talk with Henry? In Henry’s name I gave 
you his forgiveness; you know as well as I do how 
freely he forgave you before he died. So don’t think 
of this terrible calamity as retribution.” 

Lady Kesterton looked coldly into her face. 

‘‘You do not know,” she said, “or you would not 
speak in that way. If I had told you all the truth — if 
I could have made up my mind to sacrifice myself — 
then Gerald would be living still. I have killed him — 
that is what I mean by retribution. It does not so 
much matter what has happened to me. ” 

Elfrida stood silent, not daring to guess the real sig- 
nificance of her words, not daring even to glance at 
Philip, who had come to her side and taken her hand in 
his. He knew by this time what Lady Kesterton 
meant. 

“ I did not tell you everything,” said the dying wom- 
an, looking straight into Elfrida ’s face. “If I had 
told you, perhaps God would have allowed me to save 
Gerald. You know I told — for his sake. But I kept 
silence about one thing — one thing only. Sir Anthony 
died — by my hand. It was I who gave him the over- 
dose of chloral.” 

There was a strange, breathless silence in the room. 
Nobody seemed able to speak. Lady Kesterton contin- 
ued, seemingly unheedful of the silence. 

“ I could not bear the prospect. He threatened to 
turn me and my children out of doors, and to put you 
and your brother over our heads. There seemed only 
one way of preventing it — his death would make every- 
thing easy for us. He died ... you know what hap- 
pened next.” 

“ Then — were there any papers that we ought to have 
had?” said Philip, quickly. 

“Yes; they were in his desk. I destroyed them all. 
It does not matter now, because Elfrida’s position has 
been proved without them. But they were all there — 


COMPENSATION. 


523 


marriage certificate, baptismal certificates, everything 
that could possibly have been wanted. I burned every 
scrap.” 

Again there was a pause, and then Lady Kesterton 
went on in a dreamy, reflective way, as if she had for- 
gotten that anybody was beside her in the room. 

“ That was why I could not bear the Park any longer. 
The place where Sir Anthony had died was unbearable 
to me. I used to see him at nights. It seemed to me 
that he stood beside Gerald’s bed, and laid his cold, 
dead hand on Gerald’s throat. Whenever I had seen 
him do that Gerald woke up next morning with a bad 
throat. And I knew that Anthony would kill him be- 
fore long, in order to punish me. That was why I let 
Janey go away with you. I thought that one of them 
might be spared. ” 

“And Janey is spared,” said Elfrida, softly. 

“Yes, but not Gerald. Gerald is gone, although I 
took him away from the Park. He was safe at any 
rate from Anthony while we were at Sea View Lodge. 
Anthony never troubled us there. But, you see, the 
waters rose up against us, and the wind tore the roof 
from our heads; and when we escaped from sea and 
wind we were crushed to the earth, and Gerald was 
lost to me after alL God has His own way of avenging 
himself. It is no use fighting against God.” 

“ Would you like to see a clergyman?” Philip asked, 
after another silence. 

A gleam of something like humor came into Lady 
Kesterton ’s blue eyes. “ Why should I want a clergy- 
man?” she said. “What good could he ‘do me? It is 
perhaps better that I should die than that I should live. 
If I had been likely to live I could not have made that 
confession. It was some rumor about Sir Anthony’s 
death that had got abroad, was it not, Philip? I thought 
so. Well, if it is necessary, you will be able to use 
my confession — I mean if anybody else were by chance 
accused. I’ll give you a piece of evidence. I took 
away the bottle in which the chloral had been, and hid 
it in a secret drawer of my secretaire. You will find it 


524 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


there — in my room. I will sign a paper if you like. 
I can use my fingers a little still.” 

“Oh, that is not necessary,” cried Elfrida, impul- 
sively. But Philip made a slower and graver an- 
swer : 

“ I trust that such a paper may never be wanted. 
It should never be produced without dire necessity. 
But perhaps it had better be written and kept for a few 
years. ” 

Lady Kesterton’s eyes rested on him with a look of 
cold approval. 

“You could always be business-like when you chose, 
Philip,” she said. “Yes; get a piece of paper, and 
write what I dictate, then get somebody in to witness 
my signature.” And when Philip had found writing 
materials she dictated in hard, sharp tones the words 
that she wished to leave behind her. 

“ I confess that I killed my husband, Anthony Kes- 
terton, by an overdose of chloral, administered on the 
morning of the 13th of December, 188 — . ” Such were 
the terms of Lady Kesterton’s confession. 

The doctor was called into the room to witness the 
signature. The contents of the paper, which he took 
for a will, were of course not made known to him ; but 
he saw the signing of the name, and was a little sur- 
prised in after-days to hear that Lady Kestertonhad 
died intestate. • The paper was never used. 

When the doctor had gone, Elfrida and Philip re- 
mained with her to the end. Those last moments were 
very dark. One thing only seemed to bring comfort 
to her troubled mind — the assurance of Elfrida’s for- 
giveness. 

“Henry forgave me,” she murmured with her dy- 
ing breath, “and you forgive — perhaps God will for- 
give me too.” 

Then the end came. 


With Lady Kesterton’s death, the atmosphere of de- 
ceit and intrigue which had hung about Kesterton Park 
for so many weary years was cleared away. “ We have 


COMPENSAT'ION. 


^25 

no secret of our own to keep, thank God!" Philip once 
said to his wife, “ and for the secrets of others the best 
cloak is absolute silence and forgetfulness. We will 
not remember these old sad histories any more." 

And she had concurred, although her eyes would fill 
with tears sometimes as she thought of Henry’s frus- 
trated life and the early close of his shadowed day. 
Especially she thinks of him whenever she goes to Kes- 
terton village church ; for in front of the pew in which 
she sits there hangs on the wall a marble tablet in 
which the name and parentage of Sir Henry Kesterton 
are recorded for all the world to see. Henry has had 
justice done him after death, if not in the brief period 
of his life. 

For Elfrida is always at Kesterton now. It was to 
Philip’s credit that he had never troubled himself about 
his chance of succession to the baronetcy. “ It was ill 
waiting for dead men’s shoes," as others besides him 
have concluded ; and to Elfrida, who had never studied 
the family tree, it was something of a shock to find that 
on the death of Henry and of Gerald the title went to 
her husband, as well as the family estate and the money 
which Lady Kesterton had left to her eldest grandson. 
She could well afford to endow little Janey with the 
money which Sir Anthony’s eldest daughter was to 
have inherited; and Janey ’s sweetness of nature and 
entire devotion to her sister was one of the many forms 
of recompense which came to Elfrida in later days for 
the losses and troubles of her earlier life. She had 
boys and girls of her own, to whom Janey was as help- 
ful and loving, in turn, as Elfrida had been to her; 
and Janey was happy in the possession of a sweet, un- 
questioning, unsuspicious nature, which rested in a con- 
tented acceptance of all that came to her lot. She 
never knew the tragedy of her mother’s life, or the se- 
cret that her father had kept to himself for so many 
years; and her recollections of Henry were involved in 
the golden haze which veils the days of childhood from 
our memories, and she remembered him only as the 
saint of the household, the boy with the beautiful face, 


526 


SIR Anthony’s secret. 


whose cheerfulness, unselfishness and patience were 
joined to rare courage and a noble fortitude. 

Long before these happy days, however, and soon 
after the settlement of Philip and Elfrida at Kesterton 
Park, Lady Betty Stormont arrived on a visit. She 
brought with her a face of sunshine and of tears; there 
was so much to relate, so much to explain, that, as she 
herself complained, she could never remain in the same 
mood for twenty minutes together. But by the end of 
the third day of her visit Elfrida discovered that Betty 
was much more quiet and thoughtful than she used to 
be ; that there was sometimes a shade of absorption and 
even of sadness on her fair little face; and that she 
spent a great deal of time in looking out of the window. 

Lady Beltane is still abroad, is she not? Where are 
you going to spend the next few months, Betty?” 

“ I don’t know ” — rather dolefully. 

“ Where is Lord Beaulieu?” 

“ Gone abroad too;” 

“ How is that, dear?” 

“ I suppose I sent him. I could not feel sure that 
I trusted him. It seemed to me that he ought — he 
ought — ” She stopped short and blushed vividly. 

“Ought to have married me?” said Elfrida, with a 
smile. And as Betty’s guilty look showed that she had 
guessed aright, Elfrida went on earnestly : “ But, my 
dear, I refused him. And I have never been so glad of 
anything in my life as of that refusal. Why, I am far 
happier with Philip, in my own dear old home, than I 
should have been with Lord Beaulieu — little as you 
may think it!” 

“Really, Elfie?” 

“Really, dear! And — don’t you think it would be 
well if you sta5^ed the next few months with me? 
Beaulieu will be home again by and by, and it would 
be pleasant to'meet an old friend.” 

Betty demurred a little at first ; but when she was 
quite convinced that Elfrida’s happiness woiild not be 
in the least disturbed by Beaulieu’s return, she con- 
sented. And — perhaps owing to a letter from Elfrida 


Compensation. 


S27 

herself to the young man — he very soon presented 
himself at Bewley Court first, and then at Kesterton 
Park, where he and Betty found a great deal to say to 
each other in the shade of the green beech trees. After 
which it became very speedily a mere question of time 
and of the fixing of the wedding-day. 

It was when Betty’s wedding was over, on a fine 
autumnal day, that Elfrida and her husband strolled 
together through the leafy ways of Kesterton Park, com- 
ing out at last upon the cliff from which they could see 
the ruined village in the gorge, now half filled with 
water from the bay. It had been decided not to under- 
take the work of rebuilding the sea-wall and the dykes 
just yet. New cottages were being erected on the 
higher part of the hill, and both Philip and Elfrida 
thought it better to spend their money for the good of 
their tenants than in trying to make a semi-fashion- 
able watering-place out of little Kesterton village. As 
they stood and looked at the glittering water, Elfrida 
said suddenly; 

“ The place is almost prettier than it was before !” 

“ So I think,” Philip answered. “And I came across 
a curious old rhyme to-day, Elfie, which I had heard 
before, but forgotten. It is roughly scratched on a 
wall upstairs in the house, and is also to be found in 
an old manuscript. It has rather a curious signifi- 
cance.” And he repeated the words: 

“ Before the Northman is master 
Of land which is water and waste, 

Kester’s lord shall see disaster. 

Nor shall there be end of sorrow and pain 
Till the land which was water be water again.” 

“ The land which was water has certainly now become 
water again,” he added, looking down at the glistening 
waves. 

“And you — the Northman — are master!” Elfrida 
added, quickly. “And Kester’s lord has seen disas- 
ter — it is true. There is something strange about these 
old propheies sometimes!” 

“It was quoted to me by your great-grandmother, 


SIR ANTHONY^S SEORRT. 


528 

Elfie, and I sometimes think that she must have had a 
g-ift of second-sight. I will tell you the story of her 
prophecy another time. At present, there is one ques- 
tion I want to ask.” 

“Ask it, Phil.” 

“ Is there ‘an end of sorrow and pain’ for you, dear, 
as well as for me? Are you quite happy? Happy, 
satisfied — content?” 

She slipped her fingers into his hand and turned 
her sweet face to look into his eyes. 

“ Perfectly happy, Philip. Happy and satisfied. As 
long as you love me, my dearest, I shall be perfectly 
at rest. ” 

Philip drew her close to him and kissed her on the 
lips ; but he asked no more questions. For he saw the 
love-light in her eyes, and he also was content. 


THE END. 


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